


in good faith

by ajarofgoodthings



Category: Reign (TV), The Other Boleyn Girl - Philippa Gregory, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Grief/Mourning, Multiple Perspectives, Polyamory, Romance, So Bear With me, There's a lot of sex, and sex, i spent twenty years learning the facts so i could fucking ignore them, imagination required bois, listen like everything else this started as an exercise that turned into a monster, medieval politics aka highschool with money and murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2020-04-05 00:26:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19037083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajarofgoodthings/pseuds/ajarofgoodthings
Summary: Mary's mourning for Francis was only a few weeks past, she was barely returned to Scotland, when the Pope’s messenger had arrived - with a suggestion, a request, a deal, that Mary still wasn’t sure she could wrap her head around.The Vatican would refill Scotland’s depleted treasury, giving Mary the aid she needed to take control of her country back for herself, in return for Mary keeping the King of England from breaking with the Catholic Church - by marrying him. The religious strife on the continent was moving quickly across the Channel. It was a slower tide, this far north of Luther - but it was the desire of the Church, of course, to keep the Isle Catholic, beholden to the See of Rome. It was a desire important enough to pay well; the Pope’s offer was to provide half of Mary’s dowry, as well as making a sizeable gift to the Scottish crown - all to ensure that the English King married a Catholic of the right status, and not his common English whore, rumoured to have Protestant leanings herself."Are you sure this is what you want to do, Mary?"[ for those of you wanting to keep up w/ all updates & my original writing, follow me on instagram! https://www.instagram.com/ajar.ofgoodthings/ ]





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> suspend disbelief as necessary. (just, don't think about it too hard).

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**PROLOGUE**

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MARCH, 1527  
EDINBURGH CASTLE, SCOTLAND  
 **MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS**

 

“Are you sure this is what you want to do, Mary?”

It’s evening. Mary had dismissed the larger part of her household hours ago; she’d wanted to be alone. Needed the space to personally consider the Pope’s offer; to consider England’s proposal, and all the loudly-voiced opinions of her advisors.

She’d needed to _think_.

Greer had eventually come, servants on her heels with late meals for them both, her stepchildren and little Rose taking their supper with Lola and John in the nursery Mary had insisted take _all_ her friends’ children without bias. Greer had not pressed her about the meetings over their food; instead making idle conversation about Castleroy’s last letter from Portugal.

Her friend’s husband may have lost his business and safety in France, but he was a smart, shrewd man - he’d not consolidated all his wealth in one place or one bank, but instead had fractionated it with trusted friends throughout Europe, leaving him with the bare bones to rebuild. Truly, Mary was impressed by the Castleroys. Aloysius was slowly building back up his connections; keen as Mary was to expand the spice trade regularly into Scotland, and the avenue of wealth it opened. The former prisoner may not have been the man Mary once knew - he was darker, now; sharper at the edges. His optimism had been robbed from him; but not his drive to do good, nor his business sense. And his wife had no lack of that, either; Greer, brilliantly, had sold her business shortly before they departed France; to Catherine d’Medici, no less.

It was quite the buyer - even for a secret purchase, for a business conducted behind closed doors and under sheets, an extension of Catherine’s intimate spy network - and all for a Medici price.

With the right investments, Greer could soon enough once again be one of the wealthiest women in Scotland.

Kenna had appeared shortly after they had finished eating; Bash had left on an evening ride with some of Mary’s Scottish men - who Bash got on nearly _too_ well with, sometimes.

Kenna and Bash had taken a week to decide on their move to Scotland, once Catherine had been elected Charles’ regent and it was time for Mary to leave. Bash felt he had a duty to Charles as he had to Francis; but it was his first oath to his dead brother that had swayed him when Mary had offered him the position as the Head of her Queen's Guard.

That, and his wife. Kenna had wanted to leave with Mary immediately, Mary knew - she had never hesitated. She would always consider herself a Scot, and Mary’s lady, first. It just so happened that these days, Bash first counted himself Kenna’s husband.

Mary knew it had been a slow thing, their love. Anger, fear and resentment had evolved to peace; then lust, then trust. Then they had been grieving parents, together - tested by Pascal's death, tested by distance, by the mistakes they both had made before each other.

They had nearly broken - but, they had not; had only become quieter together, softer. Now, Mary did not know a more reliable couple, more loyal - and had been relieved by Bash’s reception in Scotland, welcomed by the men who had fought beside Kenna’s father for Mary’s. In them and their sons Bash had found kindred spirits; harder men than most of the youth that had populated Charles’ court, even Francis’, who chased and hunted and rode through the woods like they did not know what it was to be lost. Her soldiers, the subordinate members of Mary’s personal guard - they respected him easily, saw the worth in his words and his ways, as Mary hoped they would. Even Kenna’s younger brother, Earl of Crawford since their father’s death, had gotten on near immediately with his brother-in-law, something Mary knew Kenna had been worried about; and an assurance to Mary that, when the time came, elevating Bash to the Scottish Peerage - a station better befitting the family he had married into - would be met with minor resistance.

Lola was the last to come; after dark, once the children were asleep. By the time she had appeared, Mary was detailing her response to the Vatican - and to the English Chancellor, Cardinal Wolsey. Greer had already begun planning the packing, the progress; Kenna was sorting through Mary’s barely unpacked wardrobe, picking out what must be readily available and what could be stored long-term for the journey.

Lola had asked the question quietly, once all the explanations had been made, and the letters sealed.

_“Are you sure this is really what you want to do, Mary?”_

“No,” Mary replies, meaning it. “I’m not. But it’s the best proposal I’ve received and I may not get another opportunity like this.”

“To marry a man who wants you only to make sons?”

Lola’s tone is incredulous, sharp. Mary can see that Greer’s about to scold her, and she holds up a hand to halt her friend's half-started protest, shaking her head.

Mary knows they’re trying to help. She knows her friends are just being - protective; they’re _worried_ about her. Really, Mary’s worried about herself.

Her mourning for Francis was only a few weeks past, Mary barely returned to Scotland, when the Pope’s messenger had arrived - with a suggestion, a request, a _deal_ , that Mary still wasn’t sure she could wrap her head around.

The Vatican would refill Scotland’s depleted treasury, giving Mary the aid she needed to take control of her country back for herself, in return for Mary keeping the King of England from breaking with the Catholic Church - by marrying him. The religious strife on the continent was moving quickly across the Channel. It was a slower tide, this far north of Luther - but it was the desire of the Church, of course, to keep the Isle Catholic, beholden to the See of Rome. It was a desire important enough to pay well; the Pope’s offer was to provide half of Mary’s dowry, as well as making a sizeable gift to the Scottish crown - all to ensure that the English King married a Catholic they approved of, and not his common English whore, rumoured to have Protestant leanings herself.

Mary did not think it would hurt to leave her intended, eventual policy of religious tolerance out of her response to the Pope. If they wanted to treat her as little more than a figurehead to be sent to another man’s bed, then so be it; she would take their money and do the deed and they could twiddle their thumbs in Rome, believing they had tied her to their will.

In France, Henry VIIII’s Great Matter had been no secret; it hadn’t been a secret to anyone, anywhere; nor had his motivations for the dissolution of his marriage been. He needed a son; and he wanted Anne Boleyn.

In the eyes of the Catholic Church, the former was his rightful expectation, and Katherine of Aragon had failed in her task of delivering England an heir. Not so much, however, that the Church could or would support her humiliation - and Mary supposed she should no longer be surprised by the clever politics of priests, no matter how prickly it made her feel.

Katherine of Aragon; admirable, determined, pious Princess that she was, did not want England to break from Rome. Whatever her personal heartbreak, she had eventually been convinced to retire to a nunnery to allow the King to marry again, in hopes of having male heirs; so long as he did so with a woman who would be a Catholic consort, whom Katherine herself approved of as stepmother to she and Henry’s only living child, the Princess Mary. Mary supposed it said something of the King’s priorities that he agreed to the conditions; she supposed it said something of herself to have the daughter of Isabella’s approval.

She supposed it said quite a bit more about Katherine herself that she could throw herself so wholly, so heavily on personal sacrifice, for the sake of a country and people she had not even been born to.

It was not an ideal situation.

Except - except that it _was_ , in so many ways, most of which Mary could not even begin to explain to her friends. Mary didn’t care that her next marriage was nothing but a begrudging political alliance; a glorified breeding pair. It didn’t matter that this man would not love her, because she would not love him. Her heart had been broken too precisely, torn apart too perfectly by the last beat of Francis’. She would not recover; she knew that, and there was nothing for her to do but get on with it all.

This was a step towards a goal; keeping England in the fold of the Catholic Church was as much in Mary’s interests as the Pope’s - after all, she already had Protestant rebels at her gates. She didn’t need them at her borders, as well.

Aside from the politics of it - though, it was really all politics, if more politics of the heart, of court and flattery - Mary was rather relieved to know that her future husband’s attentions would, for the most part, be elsewhere. Mary needed his pedigree and his pledge; Anne Boleyn could keep the rest of him.

So, as much as he may only want her to breed; it was all she wanted him for, in turn. She needed his body; not his heart, not his mind. She needed his _sons,_ and his support. That was it.

Mary shakes her head at Lola. “No,” she says, shrugging. “Every suitor, every proposal that comes, is from a man that only wants me to breed. But this may be my only opportunity to charge such a _price_ to be mounted.”

She can see it - the dark expression that shadows across Greer’s face, an immediate protest to Mary’s vulgar dismissal of herself. Mary shoots her open mouth a cool look, eyebrow arched. “Am I wrong?” She asks, and Greer guppies, cheeks passionately pink with indignation.

“No,” she gives finally, “But you are a Queen, not a broodmare. You speak of yourself like my girls would have, considering a customer - you’re not for sale.”

“Aren’t I? My body, my bloodline?”

Greer sighs.

Kenna has said nothing; sat down on the pallet at the end of Mary’s bed to watch the back-and-forth. When Mary meets her eyes, Kenna only tilts her head in a silent question.

“I don’t mind,” Mary says, quieter, dropping back in her seat, letting the Queen fall from her shoulders. “Him having another woman, the Boleyns. Truly - I don’t. It’s better this way, to be his wife in bed and Queen everywhere else. She can be his wife, all those other ways. I need a King and a man, but I don’t need him to be a true husband.”

It’s quiet - Kenna nods first, and then Greer.

Lola persists.

“Your heart will heal, Mary. You deserve the chance to love again.”

Mary knows that Lola believes it; she has to. She has lived it more than once. She has started over and over and forever been better for it.

But Mary feels - broken, in a way she cannot explain. It is not so bad so long as she does not think of him - oh, she can speak of him; it’s an easy, distant concept, his name a blade she has been cut on too many times to feel it anymore. But she does not think of him; she does not think of them, warm under white sheets and sunlight; of the certainty of his voice, the security of his body beside hers - of how she will never hear, feel those things; of how she is making these decisions without him.

Sometimes, without anyone.

She hopes he will forgive her for this one.

“I will love you, Lola. And you, Greer and Kenna. I will love my children. Your children. Our people.”

It’s easy enough to say. Lola sighs; Mary wins the argument.

“Besides… my son will unite the English and Scottish crowns,” Mary gives eventually; the personal, painful, pointed argument that had won her the fight with the Privy Council. “Our ancestors have been rivals, murdering each other for centuries. Lola, your grandfather died at the border; Kenna, your Uncle, and your father was there when they pulled my father's from Flodden Field. Both of Aylee’s brothers - Greer, your mother's father. This marriage will end the bloodshed. Permanently. He will be crowned on both the English coronation chair _and_ the Stone of Destiny, taken from us so long ago. It will make history. _We_ will make history,.”

She can feel it, the thrill of patriotism in her ladies at the memories, legends of battles both a generation past and further.

“The contract will be done with my oversight this time, as well,” Mary goes on; Kenna has abandoned her organization of Mary’s shoes, she and Greer both coming to sit in the window seat, across from Lola and Mary at the desk. “He has not even requested the Crown Matrimonial - my preferences have already been made clear. Our eldest son shall be Prince of Wales and High Steward of Scotland, and Duke of Rothesay. He will inherit both crowns eventually, united in him - but both will remain their own Kingdoms legislatively, and our second son will be Duke of York, Duke of Albany, Earl of Carrick and Chester - Scottish-English Princes, with holdings and men, in each. The Earldoms are part of my dowry until he is born, of course - but a promise nonetheless, and I am supplementing so little of it myself…”

They talk for hours; the girls have questions, suggestions. Mary had had a preliminary contract after meeting with the council, but by morning she has something much more solid, vetted by the love of her friends over the politics of her courtiers.

She has no sleep, of course - but it’s worth it, to meet the men in council the next day, confident in her decision, confident in the future she is planning for them all.

 

 

 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

 

 

It’s not until the next day that anyone asks her, outright, about Anne.

“You know her, don’t you?”

They’re in the tiltyard; Mary had not managed to sway James into playing with her today, but Bash had been happy enough to take up a sword with her, gleeful in his opportunity to educate. Lola has hefted herself a sword once or twice, though Greer and Kenna refrain; currently supervising not only Mary and Bash, but little John and his small wooden sword, enthusiastically copying his Uncle Bash on unsteady legs with slashes aimed at imaginary foes.

The question comes from Kenna.

“Or - did. You _did_ know her, both of you,” she goes on, and Mary signals to Bash to pause in their play, stopping to try and catch her breath - and gauge the question from her lady. Bash, too, shoots his wife a glance under an arched eyebrow, then shrugs.

“A long time ago. Nearly ten years. She was my sister Elisabeth’s Lady, then Catherine’s favourite. She was always kind to me, but certainly never sought me out. Her sister was my mother’s rival for the King’s attentions, for a time.”

It’s a short summary of the life of the Boleyns in France - Mary remembers them, too. Mary Boleyn, now Mary Carey, had always been more sunshine than girl; sweet and beautiful and blonde, she had easily captured the attentions of King Henri’s wandering eye. Mary was sure Bash must have been witness to more than one fight, more than one tantrum, between his parents regarding her - as he had been to all of his father’s infidelities from Diane. The woman had made quite a reputation for herself in France; and then been bundled back to England, and returned once more to a royal Henry's bed. Mary’s spies had reported more than enough rumours about the paternity of Mary Carey’s children, though both her son and daughter carried her husband’s name. So too Mary remembers Anne, just as Bash describes her; first a lady of the Princess Elisabeth’s household, one of the few who did not accompany her to Spain upon her marriage, moved instead to the service of the Queen. Mary had always assumed that had to do with Thomas Boleyn’s position, as English diplomat to France - he had always kept his daughters close, she had seen, and thought perhaps that he did not want to send his youngest so far away. It had not occurred to Mary until later that it had been at the behest of Catherine herself that Anne remain; and when the proposal had come, Mary had written to Catherine immediately, asking her all she may need to know of the woman soon to be a constant, if not daily, part of her life and marriage.

“I knew her as Catherine’s companion, occasionally a nurse to her children. We were all much younger, then - I remember her as kind enough, as well. Intelligent; she and Catherine would take for hours and hours about this philosophy and that - I was always surprised at their relationship when her sister was with the King,” Mary shrugs, takes the skin of wine offered to her by Greer. “I suppose I understand it more now,” she adds, gulping in a terribly undignified way, feels the cool run of wine down her cheek, to her neck. Greer rolls her eyes disapprovingly, offering a kerchief.

“They say she’s the most charming woman in Europe. Brilliant, quick, learned - beautiful too, irresistibly,” Lola lists off; nothing Mary hasn’t heard before, nothing they haven’t listened to _together_ , reported directly from Mary’s spies.

“D’you think she’ll be there?” Kenna asks, a broad question. Mary laughs.

“In general? Yes. He’s in love with her.”

“I meant - _there_ ,” Kenna gives, gesturing aimlessly. “With you. Both of you. With the court. Has he installed her as his _Maîtresse-en-titre_? Has that ever been done in England?”

Bash answers for Mary.

“The Royal Mistress is as common in England as anywhere else, I don’t think to the degree of power and position my mother held, though,” it’s an awkward subject, they all know; an unavoidable one, with the new circumstances of Mary’s life, and subsequent forced change to that of her friends.

Not for the first time, Mary sends a thankful prayer for the patience of the people she loves.

“Not yet, anyway,” Greer qualifies. “We ought to be prepared for it.”

“What does that mean?” Lola prompts. Greer sighs, looking at Mary.

“We should assume she’ll be there, always. A permanent fixture at court. Then if she is not we will all be happily surprised; but prepared. Two separate households - two domestic lives for the King, two families.”

“One Queen,” Mary says, sharp. “One heir.”

“Of course,” Kenna gives soothingly, waving an unworried hand, “He has used up his favours with the Pope and Rome to force Katherine into retirement, to have you. He’ll not be upsetting the Succession to legitimize her children, later.”

In a breath of a few words, their ghosts are summoned to hang over them, heavy and dark. Mary cannot remember the last time they were not there; though every step closer to England, to her next marriage, wraps a cord tighter to her throat. They are the shadows of their own mistakes; and the mistakes of their parents, of the lives they have lead trying to please the people who gave them life and left them, of the decisions they have made trying to find the best way through. Guilt, loud and suffocating, prickles along Mary’s neck.

She does not look at Bash.

“We’ll just have to hope it’s not one marriage bed, as well,” Kenna goes on, as though she cannot see the shadows, as though the cold creep of ghostly hands has not crawled along her throat.

Greer chokes.

“Kenna, _what_?”

Kenna shrugs.

“We have no idea what his preferences are, nor hers. They do not know of Mary’s and probably do not care, yet. I’m not speaking of the bedding, the actual consummation - but _after_? Who’s to say what he wants? Will she _be_ there?” She says, and despite Greer’s sharp scandal of an inhale before she mutters Kenna’s name, scolding, Mary knows that Kenna’s being serious.

Mary isn’t sure if Kenna’s told anyone else about what had happened with King Henri - but Mary knows enough to be sure that Kenna’s concern is genuine.

After all, Katherine of Aragon wasn’t the only woman the King would have consulted in his pick of a wife; his first choice would have weighed in on his second - and Mary didn’t know the details of that. That Anne Boleyn was still at court, still beautiful, engaging and brilliant at the centre of it - still attached to the King’s side, his constant companion, present for political and personal matters alike, was certain; but Mary had no way of being sure how far it would go within her marriage. However, she was no longer a child, naive to what a man could want; Don Luis and his sex horse had provided her with that particular piece of wisdom.

“I suppose I’ll find out,” Mary gives, unsure of what to say. She wants to ask Kenna what she should do - but she doesn’t want to force her friend to talk about something she doesn’t want to, particularly in present company.

“Seducing them both might be to your benefit,” Kenna goes on and Mary feels her brow knit, confused - she’ll do what she has to, to make this work, but Anne Boleyn is not a particularly _desired_ bedfellow, as far as she’s concerned.

“Kenna really, _please_ ,” Greer cuts in, exasperated. Lola, having just given John up to his nurse, crosses from Mary to Kenna, shaking her head. Mary shoots a look at Bash, steadily gulping his own wine. He seems unperturbed by the conversation, endless lines of courtesy and manners that they’re crossing - which she supposes is an answer, to if Kenna had spoken to anyone else; and also an answer to Kenna’s lack of ghosts.

Unsurprising, maybe. Kenna’s forgiveness, for Mary, has always been the easiest to come by.

“No, Greer, Kenna’s right,” Lola says, leaning against the table set out for them, laden with a simple lunch for the Queen’s inner circle. She looks at Mary, shrugging in a half-apologetic, blunt kind of way. “The more she likes you, the more he has you, the more likely you’ll get pregnant. And you _need_ an heir, as soon as possible,” she explains, and Mary feels the heat of flush creep along her neck with the truth of it.

She hears Greer sigh, but Mary can’t look away from the burn of guilty sympathy in Lola’s eyes. This will forever be a place of hurt for them, Mary thinks - as much as it’s also a place of love; as much as she adores John, there will always be a sense of betrayal to it, and there will always be a sense of jealousy. Lola had done for Francis something that Mary had never been able to; and because of it, she would forever have a piece of Francis that Mary would not. Godmother or no, Mary was not John’s mother.

So it was that, too - as much as Mary needed an heir; as much as she needed a nursery full of babies, for her own country and to keep this marriage, keep this King - she also _wanted_ children. For most of her life, being a mother had simply been an unavoidable expectation; it would be an inevitable part of her life, but Mary hadn’t really come to _want_ it until Francis’ brothers, until she saw what a father he could be with them, what a father he was with John. Her friends had children, now, too; they were no longer children themselves - Kenna especially, though she may not have been Pascal’s real mother; Mary knew her heart had been fissured as surely as any parent’s by his death. And, Mary knew that though she may never have love in her marriage, she would have love in her children; if nothing else, Catherine d’Medici had made her sure of that much.

“So what do I do?” Mary asks, moving onto the task at hand; and moving to sit in one of the ornate chairs pulled into the courtyard for them, ignoring the concerned way Greer is looking at her. 

She’s so _tired_ of everyone looking at her like she’s broken. Even if that’s exactly how she feels, sometimes - broken by Francis’ death, broken by betraying Conde, by the attack on the Castle - by her love, her life, her birthright. It makes her feel resolute as well, though; determined - she has a goal, now. She’ll survive.

Greer sighs again. This time, it’s like defeat.

“Make a good first impression,” she says, and Mary turns in surprise to look at her. Greer shoots a cautious look at Bash, then back to Mary, and rolls her eyes. “That’s what the girls always said; the best way to keep a client coming back is to make a good first impression. But - I don’t know that their manner of accomplishing that exactly suits the dignity of a Queen.” Greer’s smile is more of a wince, nose scrunching in apology.

Mary laughs.

“You’d be surprised,” she gives, so Greer laughs too, and Mary feels a little brighter. Bash laughs, too, his arm draping around Kenna’s shoulders as he picks at the table of fruit and cheese. Lola and Kenna both turn to face her, and Lola’s grinning wickedly at the joke while Kenna tilts her head, tipping the skin Bash had passed her forward in a barely-there gesture towards Mary.

“Be eager, let him teach you. Greer’s right - especially the night of the wedding, Mary; in all likelihood, he’ll assume you’re inexperienced anyway, because you and Francis were so young,” and Mary feels, more than sees, the sharp adjustment to Greer’s posture at the mention of Francis’ name; it’s echoed in the curved cut to the downturn of Lola’s mouth, she thinks - but she appreciates Kenna’s honesty. This is serious, they don’t have any time to be worried about feelings - this is _business_ . Treating it as such is the only way Mary knows how to keep her nerve - _It will be a cold choice. It's mathematical, you could say. Because the only other option is to pull the covers over your head and give up._ “Make up for lack of experience in enthusiasm. Don’t let him sleep. His ego will keep him coming back because he’ll want to prove he can keep up with you - Katherine was old, Anne’s practically a decade older than you, and she’s kept him this long by not letting him fuck her. I’m sure he’s got the energy to spare.”

Mary can’t help but glance at the door of the yard, anxious, with Kenna’s words - as much as she’s right, it’s rude, and it’s more than a little bit dangerous given the potential for listening ears. Mary grits her teeth, taking a slow breath and nodding.

“Anne’s only six years older than Mary,” Greer says before anyone can speak again, and the lightness of the intrusion is disarming for a moment.

“Practically a decade,” Kenna repeats, a mischievous flash of a grin cutting against her mouth.

“I’m the same age as her!” Greer gives, more brightly offended, and Mary has to press her hand to her mouth to keep herself from laughing, dropping her other hand to reach for Greer’s in consolation.

“That’s all well and good, Kenna, but he’s not exactly a young man, either. When he finishes -”

“When he stops touching you, touch yourself.”

She says it like it’s obvious - easy, simple, Kenna brings the skin back to her mouth, sipping in the ensuing silence. Bash is burying laughter into her hair.

“That would probably work,” Lola says finally, and Greer laughs first this time.


	2. oh, father tell me, do we get what we deserve?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne knew what Henry first wanted in a wife; he had thought to marry a young, pretty girl with the right breeding, a toy Queen he could prop prettily next to him and divert with spoiling, silly amusements and sparkling gifts - and get sons off of. It was a compliment, really - in her, Henry already had his love; his intellectual match, his soulmate, his partner in life; he had no interest in an educated wife, a woman to carry conversation with - he did not need a wife for that, he needed a wife for the making of Princes. But Anne was better at seeing the bigger picture; Henry was duty-minded, thinking to the immediate future and the legacy left behind - Anne would plan for in-between, for them both.
> 
> For all three of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, yes. my new favourite trio of fools.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

**_OH FATHER TELL ME, DO WE GET WHAT WE DESERVE?_ **

 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**JUNE, 1527  
BERWICK CASTLE, NORTHUMBERLAND  
LADY ANNE BOLEYN**

  
  


They arrive at Berwick in the cool-bright of midday warmth, early spring sun glinting blindingly off the water. The procession lumbers slow and proud along the riverside path, steady as the massive stone shadow of the fortified castle looms before it.

The small party heading the progress is richly decorated; pearls and jewels glint from embroidered riding cloaks, heavy for travel in a late northern spring but luxurious nonetheless. At their front rides a woman; clearly a woman, despite sitting astride her massive black hunter - black hair is worn long and braided down her back, covered only by the light-catching dazzle of a crown. Jewelry catches the light at the hollow of her throat; earrings sparkle when she throws her head back, laughing at something said by one of her companions. They number four; two other women both leading their own mounts with the same confidence of their Queen; one of obviously fairer complexion even at a distance, blonder, a hat with a single peacock plume on her head; the other of dark hair as well, carelessly loose and undone down her back. Finally, the trio is accompanied by a man; riding just to the left of the ladies, sitting a head taller than them, head turning this way and that as he takes in his surroundings, the castle, the town.

There’s a dart, then; a dark figure shouts from the shadows of the castle, rider beelining for the royal party. For a beat, the armed guard around them tenses; with a wave from their Queen they relax, visibly slowing and leaning back in their saddles to let the rider pass to her. He rides artfully, rears up to turn alongside her without the party slowing, not a beat lost.

They’re closer, now; the black-and-blue detailing on the cloak of the Queen's fourth companion, a tall man riding slightly aside from the little group, is visible from the ramparts of the castle. The Queen is wearing diamonds from her ears, matched by the bright wink of gold metal scattering her fingers. She grips the reins of her horse, leaning into the messenger as he ducks his head.

There’s the heavy, unwilling grind of wood on stone; the English are opening the gates of Berwick to the Scottish party.

There’s a hush from the crowds gathering from the town, having followed the progress down the roads as they went - heavy under the din of the travellers. Peasants and onlookers crowd the road, their excitement held at bay by the Scottish guards, rougher-looking than those in Tudor livery. Even Anne, perched precariously above it all, watching in silence as the finality, the funeral, of all her dreams and plans are confirmed with the arrival of the girl-Queen at this border town, a long standing battleground, feels the tension of anticipation in her shoulders.

The progress never loses pace, never falters; the Queen and her men ride out ahead of the main party, both flanking a few paces behind her.

A matching party dispatches from the castle; it’s a moment before Anne can see them past the shadow of it, but she knows; the King rides in front, dressed in burgundy and cloth-of-gold, his crown a glint at his temples. He’ll be the shortest, between More and Wolsey, but sitting with pride, taking the measure of the Scottish Queen, her companions, her household, just as Anne is from above.

Of course - he will be considering them, _her_ , from a much different perspective than Anne’s assessment.

They’re still at a distance, but memory fills where vision cannot; Anne knows the sweet prettiness of the girl’s features; long and fine, but strong. She was never delicate in her beauty; dark, wide eyes, a straight nose, high apple-cheeks and a full mouth, petal pink. Anne remembers her at fourteen, but even then, the Queen of Scots was beautiful; charmingly sweet in her sincerity, sometimes naivety - effortlessly seductive at the edge of womanhood. A dangerous combination in any person, in any monarch, let alone a young girl.

 

_‘She’ll win hearts, and hold them,’ Catherine d’Medici said, watching her royal ward and ladies playing across the lake from her spot with Anne at the water’s edge. She was not envious, but instead calculating - it was something Anne had always admired particularly about the Queen of France, her ability to put feelings to the side and look deeper, ask, ‘what can be learned from this, and how can I use it to my advantage?’_

_Anne said nothing, refilling their wine and waiting. They did this often; Catherine would dismiss her other ladies and she and Anne would sit by the lake; sometimes with Prince Charles and Henry, sometimes with Nostradamus, sometimes with wine. Anne had been at French court with her sister and father for almost ten years, a lady-in-waiting and companion first to the Princess Elisabeth until her marriage, and then to Queen Catherine, a spot kept due to her Father’s favoured diplomacy._

_The French King liked the Boleyns, appreciated Anne’s father’s wily, dry way of conversation - appreciated her sister Mary for different reasons entirely, ones Anne considered far less a compliment to her family, whatever their Father may say. Anne, though, had always been Catherine’s favourite - she had trusted her most when she was in Liza’s household, and favoured her especially now. They were of like mind on many things; fashion, art, music - but more importantly, matters of philosophy and religion; matters of ambition. Anne thought Catherine had always liked the story of the upstart Boleyns - saw pieces of her own history in it, perhaps, though far less grand. Regardless, Anne had always loved her, alway admired her; her intelligence, her independence, her practicality. Watching her watch the little Queen, her soon to be daughter-in-law, her eventual usurper, Anne admired her even more._

_‘She’ll hold her crown through the love of the people,’ Catherine finally went on, voice low with the weight of prediction; ‘It will be the hearts of her countrymen that keep her safe.’_

 

Anne watches the trios approach each other to the blare of horns, pitting the memory against her recent correspondence with Catherine, no longer Queen of France, instead mother of the King. Twice over now; her golden boy, her eldest; the always smiling Francis, now cold and dead in the Basilica Cathedral, a different future for them all buried along with him. Anne did not write to Catherine often anymore; not in years, not since the King had taken up with her - she could not risk it; they were simple friends, their writing had always been the affection of a Lady and her former Mistress, but Anne could not be caught writing to the Queen of France while being courted by the King of England, however innocent any of it may be. But, when the plan had formed - when the Church, the _Pope_ , had suggested such a ‘simple’ solution - when Henry’s supposed wife had agreed, to the shock of everyone; when she had turned around with her own conditions, her own diplomacy, with all the cleverness of the Princess of Spain’s most Catholic parents, played them all.

Oh, Katherine would do as the Holy Father suggested; she would end her twenty year reign as Queen of England with a final act of piety, of dedication to her husband, her religion and her country; she would retire to a nunnery and release Henry from their marriage, release him to have legitimate sons, Princes. Her stipulation was that their daughter the Princess Mary would remain in the Succession, after sons but before younger daughters - and the new Queen would have to be a Catholic; she had even gone so far as to request an opinion on her former husband’s choice of new bride, her precocious daughter’s new stepmother.

Of course, she would never allow him to marry Anne. Of course, Henry, spoilt boy that he was, so used to instant gratification, so habitual in his obedience to the woman he’d loved since he was a boy, had agreed.

After Henry had told Anne - after they had fought, and they _had_ fought, truly; Anne had been surprised by the depth of her own hurt, by how irrevocably the betrayal of his agreement had fissured her heart - after Anne had caught her breath, come to acceptance and re-strategized, she had written to Catherine. After all, if the former English Queen could weigh in on her replacement, Anne should be able to choose her own rival.

She was not the only one to suggest the Queen of Scots - but, she thought, her suggestion had surprised Henry the most.

Anne knew that was fair. She had ignored his apologies, his pleading, his declarations of undying love - she had accepted his gifts and letters, could not bring herself to send them back when she knew his sincerity, his own predicament, caught somewhere between love and duty as a King, and love and duty as a man. But, she had not answered him, and she had not sent word before dispatching herself from her self-imposed seclusion at Hever and gone to London, to him. She had surprised him with her appearance, catching him in his presence chamber before dinner; she had surprised him with her plan, Catherine’s correspondence tucked safely into her bodice - and she had surprised him with her forgiveness, kissing him, full on the pouty, rosebud mouth she loved so much - and held him when he cried, when the weight of the world, the history, the future, broke something in her Atlas’ chest.

And then for the first time, they had made love. He had carried her to his bed, the massive four-poster in which Kings of England had been made, and made good on nearly every promise he had made her. He had her maidenhead; she had his heart. They made love, and in the afterglow, exhausted on each other, she had told him of the wife she’d picked for him.

 

_‘She’s an intelligent Queen. Compassionate first, merciful, but ruthless in her principles and justice. Catherine calls her brave, even.’_

_‘But young. Very young.’_

_“Is that not the intention?’_

_‘Yes - but a young Queen, young girl, young heart; an intelligent heart, not like to be contented by only my duty to her, by jewels and pretty clothes…’_

_‘She has a country to rule, my love, and a purpose and duty as much as you. And her heart - however young it may be, has been through much. She’s lost a husband, a man she truly loved by all accounts, and has spent her entire life with death at her heels. She is no child-bride with flights of fancy.’_

 

Anne knew that was first what Henry wanted; he had thought to marry a young, pretty girl with the right breeding, a toy Queen he could prop prettily next to him and divert with spoiling, silly amusements and sparkling gifts - and get sons off of. It was a compliment, really - in her, Henry already had his love; his intellectual match, his soulmate, his partner in life; he had no interest in an educated wife, a woman to carry conversation with - he did not need a wife for that, he needed a wife for the making of Princes. But Anne was better at seeing the bigger picture; Henry was duty-minded, thinking to the immediate future and the legacy left behind - Anne would plan for in-between, for them both.

For all three of them.

If Henry married the little Scottish Queen, the centuries-long slaughter between the inhabitants of their Isle would end with their son. Anne may not be able to truly realize her own ambition - she would never see her own son on the throne of England; she would never be coronated ‘Anna Regina, Queen of England’ - but she could still see England brought to greatness; she could still raise her family’s station, she could still have her love. To bite back that ambition - to push forward, encourage Henry into the arms, the love, of another - one Anne knew personally to be a brilliant girl, sure now to be the most engaging of women, matured by marriage, fear, power and grief - it had felt brittle, like she was forcing something to break inside of her, sharp and splintering.

She wondered if it was how Katherine had felt; conceding defeat, re-assessing her position. As infuriatingly stubborn, graceful, pious - _Spanish_ , as the woman was, Anne could not help but admire the cards she had played with such a bad hand; and Anne now, too, though she was loathe to admit it, felt herself commiserating with the former Queen in this.

Yes, it was a bitter bile, and Anne bit hard on her back teeth against the taste of acid as she watched Henry dismount. He was not a young man anymore, almost two decades his bride’s senior - but he was still healthy and fit, and dropped from his horse with all the grace of a lifelong athlete, joined quickly, though far less energetically, by Wolsey and More. They hung back as Henry went forward, dazzlingly bright in the reflections of the sun off the water and the gold-thread in his clothes.

The taller of the Queen’s two male companions, her gentleman sentinel, had also dismounted, and assisted his mistress from her horse. Anne guessed from the easy familiarity that this man must be James, Earl of Moray - the Queen’s bastard half-brother. He had acted as her Regent between her mother’s death and her return from France; from everything Henry’s ambassador and spies had shared, he remained her closest advisor - and was also known to have fierce Protestant leanings.

It was that which had made Anne sure of this course, of her encouragement of Henry - the girl-Queen’s rumoured religious tolerance; a Catholic Queen herself, her reign publicly supported by the Vatican - but kept her Protestant bastard brother in close confidence, met the Protestant rebels who wanted to unseat her and crown him with steady mercy, steady justice; steady empathy, a trait practically unheard of in any monarch. According to the whispers of servant-spies at French court, she had even vehemently advised her late husband against his retaliations against the French Protestant factions.

They could be allies, in this. Anne knew herself not to be as fierce a reformer as many others - it was not the destruction of the Roman Catholic Church that she wanted, but freedom from it for herself, for anyone who looked to a different relationship with faith; a direct relationship with God.

There was a plan; there was a _compromise_ , and Anne thought if this girl was the woman Catherine claimed her to be, she would have seen the ease of it as immediately as Anne had. She would know for herself that there was purpose for it all; for the Queen, the King, and for Anne; watching as Henry helped his young, beautiful bride re-mount her horse, and knowing the simple intimate pleasure of his hands, warm and strong, gripped tight at her waist.

 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS**

  
  


“Well!”

It’s an accurate declaration; Kenna pulls her hat off with emphasis, shamelessly dropping it on Mary’s bed.

Immediately, Greer snaps it up, smacking Kenna in the shoulder. “What? Oh - stop,” Kenna gives, half-turning and waving a hand at Greer. “He’s quite good-looking, isn’t he? In excellent shape, very fit, very handsome. That mouth! A constant pout. It shouldn’t be too difficult, Mary, to feign an interest.”

Again, Greer smacks her. Kenna cackles.

They’d arrived at Berwick Castle only a few hours before, in the earliest hours of the afternoon. After the grand display of their arrival and Mary’s first meeting of the English King, the historic invitation of the Scottish party into Berwick, they had been lead to their prepared quarters, newly scrubbed and fresh with sweet-smelling rushes strewn across stone floors. Mary rather liked the residence, so far - a fortress, compared to her palace-home in France, but closer to the long-remembered castles of Scotland she kept in her heart like secrets. She could hear the rhythmic lap of water against the shores surrounding them, a soothingly repetitive sound against the flurry of Mary’s rooms, of the castle.

Her privy chamber isn’t quite so busy - Mary strips herself of her travelling cloak and sits before the looking glass as her ladies quarrel, then turns around in her seat, drifting her hand along the back of it until she finds Lola’s so she can squeeze it, once, reassuring herself. Across from her, Kenna is propping herself across pillows on the pallet at the foot of the great bed, a cup of wine in her hands; Greer moves to settle herself in the windowseat, fanning herself with her hands.

The bustle of noise comes from the other side of the curtain they’ve drawn; a small reception chamber, which Greer shoots a wary glance at before looking back to Mary, apparently expectant.

Mary had hardly been able to process her meeting with the King, as it was happening. She had felt very far away; locked at a distance, almost, watching herself work through the rehearsed, instinctive motions of courtesy, manners and flirting with her soon-to-be-husband.

He had ridden out at the head of a trio, accompanied by men quickly introduced to Mary as Cardinal Wolsey, whom she had been corresponding with, and Thomas More, the King’s secretary and personal adviser. The King was shorter than them both, but sat tall and proud; easy and graceful in the saddle, riding out to meet his bride-to-be. He had worn a doublet of purple silk, embroidered in brown and cloth-of-gold flowers, gold sewn glittering into his sleeves, his upper hose a matching purple and nether hose a deep brown, gartered below his knee. He had pressed himself from his horse with great energy; he was, in fact, as excellent shape as Kenna had said - and had approached Mary with all the courtesy and respect she was due, sweeping her a bow inarguably deeper than she was owed from another sovereign monarch.

All those things aside, he had not truly had Mary’s attention until he had lifted - until she had watched his eyes track her body; the practiced sweep of a man used to considering women without fear of rejection. His gaze had caught at her waist, her breasts, the hollow of her throat; and finally, eyes so light they were the blue of a frozen lake, a sheet of ice across pale waters, had caught Mary’s; trapping them, holding her like a rabbit in a snare.

Suddenly, Mary had understood all the rumours she’d heard about the Golden Prince of Christendom.

“He is quite attractive, and charming,” she cannot keep the relief out of her voice with the agreement, thinking of the catch of his fingers in her palm when he kissed her hand, the heat of his grip through her dress when he’d lifted her back to her horse. Little things, the slightest of touches - but Mary knew that Kenna was right, already. It would not be hard to want him. “Not that it would matter,” she adds, more to herself than anyone else - but before she can answer the question arched in Lola’s eyebrow, the tilt of Greer’s head, there’s a knock, and a page pops his head through the curtain when Mary calls him.

“Lord Moray for you, Madam,” the page gives, dutifully bowing out. In his place enters Mary’s half-brother.

Mary knows the man, a foot taller than her, is nearly a mirror to her; both of them reflections of their shared father. Oval faces, squared jaws, full lips, almond-shaped eyes. His are a bright ocean-blue to her dark brown - but they had the same hair; black, except when it caught red in the sun.

“James,” Mary gives, sighing when he lifts from his bow. “You look displeased.”

He’s been unhappy with her since the decision was made, disapproving of her choice in husband, the decision to marry Scotland to England. He, like everyone else, had wanted her to marry a Scottish noble and consolidate power within the country; James’ reasons were kinder than most -  he wanted Mary to have the chance to grieve, to have a home in Scotland; to not have to _leave_ that home, as opposed to grasping for power himself. Nonetheless, his disapproval had been as frustrating as those nobles who wanted to marry themselves into the royal family.

“Yes - no, Your Majesty. That was very well done, you had both courts captivated, as well as the King. Very pretty.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, James.”

“I’m not. I _am_ surprised at who else you had captivated - the Boleyns.”

The air goes out of the room. Mary can feel it, a silence like shattered glass.

“All of them?” Lola asks. James nods.

“The brother is with the King, now, as is the sister’s husband. Always are, sounds like - the son, his father the Viscount Rochford, and the Lord and Lady Carey were in attendance in the courtyard when you both rode in,” James explains as Mary turns away from him in her seat again, taking off her earrings. Her ladies react to the shift immediately, Kenna moving to open the first trunk they’ve brought up to find Mary a fresh dress, Lola helping to de-jewel Mary and Greer beginning to unpin the braids of her hair.

Her ladies are nothing if not efficient - and good at pretending they’re not listening.

“Where was Anne?” Mary asks, breaking the silence on the unspoken rule of the unspoken name.

It’s silent. Greer lifts Mary’s hair and Mary tilts her head so Lola can free her from the weight of the heavy emerald necklace. The metal clinks, loud. When she lifts her head, not even James will meet her eyes in the mirror.

“Well?”

“She was on the ramparts, watching you arrive,” Kenna gives.

Mary turns around. Only Kenna is looking at her.

“Who saw her first?”

“I did,” Lol says, looking up from where she’s setting away Mary’s necklace. “Then James. I wasn't sure it was her - just a dark figure, but I saw her before we reached the gates - she watched us ride up,” Lola explains.

“And none of you thought to tell me?” Mary asks; just a question. She cannot even muster the energy to accuse; Mary has no anger, anymore. Not to waste on this.

“Would you have wanted to know she was there?”

 _No_ , Mary thinks - _but I would have wanted the first look._

The woman is a mystery, an enigma. Mary has a puzzle-piece picture of her, built from memories, reports, and letters. Her memories are hazy with the gauze of her childhood, where Anne is a figure nearly twice her height, a sweet, quick-to-laugh friend of Francis’ older sister, then an intimidating shadow of his mother. Mary's spies describe her as the rest of Europe does, simultaneously convinced of the woman’s irresistibility and her damnation.

The picture Catherine had painted was not all that different. She was formidable, ambitious, driven; Catherine had described her as more intelligent than most of the men at French court, a better conversationalist, wittier, incomparably clever. She had more worldly education than one would expect of a woman of her upbringing; wealthy, sure - noble, even; but Catherine had said she was a woman like to seek the information she wanted, to pursue knowledge without apology or caution. She had sung her praises and phrased them all within a warning; Anne Boleyn was a force to be reckoned with, as determined in her course once she had set her mind to something as a winter storm - but Catherine had completed her letter with an important caveat.

_She is dangerously stubborn, deviously captivating. A woman men would die to follow, and women will trip themselves over, desperate to emulate, driven to compete. But, Mary, Queen of Scots, my dearest friend; so are you._

Outside of her personal qualities, Mary knew her to be a girl from an upstart family that had made a name for itself barely a few generations past, finally breeding noble blood into Anne and her siblings from her Howard mother.

She’s a woman trapped by circumstance; admired across Europe for all the same qualities she’s condemned for, by the same men, in the same breath.

In many ways, Mary considers them kindred spirits.

In even more, Mary is more keen to meet her than she had been the King.

Mary hums.

“No,” she says finally, “But I should like to be of a level with her,” Mary admits, moving to sit before the looking glass. “Would here or the gardens suit better, d’you think?”

“What -”

“Mary!”

“I must meet her, eventually. I would prefer a time and place of my choosing,” she tells them, does not add, _soon, now, before the anticipation suffocates me_.

“You must have the King’s permission -”

“It could be dangerous.”

“You should not _have_ to meet her here, Mary.”

Mary looks at them in turn - James, Kenna, Greer. Only Lola has not protested, and Mary tilts her head at her.

“You’re John’s godmother, Mary. I’m hardly surprised.”

Mary smiles.

“He has her here, with him, to meet me. For our wedding. Whatever my personal feelings about it, her presence here is an insult and I will not begin by asking this King’s _permission_ to entertain his insult - nor a woman of noble birth, that he has invited to _our_ court,” James shifts forward to interrupt Mary, but she ignores him, looking at Kenna. “Dangerous?”

There’s a beat of silence. Kenna shifts, shooting an uncomfortable glance at the back of James’ head. All of Mary’s ladies know her brother - but they have not known him in a long time, not outside of Mary’s mentions of his correspondence from Scotland, not as anything but Mary’s regent and power hold in her home. They do not trust him; they have never had to. And Mary is not entirely sure of her trust in him, herself.

Regardless, Kenna clears her throat. “Diane and Catherine tried to poison me.”

Aylee’s ghost aches loudly, coldly, in the center of the room. Mary feels her as sure as her own heartbeat. She wonders what her friend would have thought of all this; feels hollow in the empty space where Aylee’s bright, sweet laugh should be - unwaveringly optimistic, determined to see the best of a situation. Mary could use some of that, now.

“She would be suspected immediately and then he would never be able to marry her,” Greer says softly, stepping to curve her hand over Kenna’s shoulder. “It isn’t the same. But - Mary, it _is_ an insult. Why should you entertain her here?”

“He likes to keep her close, that much is clear,” Mary starts, still wondering what Aylee’s advice would be, what she would say. “What is more like to be a life of misery? Silence and stone or, at the very least, an acquaintance; an understanding,” Mary shrugs, turning back around in her chair. “Besides, they tell me he’s a man prone to moods. He’ll be much harder to manage if I’ve got her working against me; and a rivalry will set him on edge, I’m sure. I’ll simply - take the first step.”

Her ladies mutter their agreements - Lola is most emphatic, shameless in the challenging look she gives James, as though daring him to argue with any of them.

“You talk about the King of England like he’s a spoilt boy you must plot around,” James remarks simply, looking away from Lola to Mary in the mirror.

“As how we discuss all men,” Kenna says, waving a dismissive hand. Mary laughs.

“Lola, transcribe for me, please? James, please find me a page who knows where the Lady Boleyn is lodged - assuming she is not sharing the King’s quarters, of course.”  
  


**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**HENRY VIII, KING OF ENGLAND**

 

After the presentation of his future bride, Henry retires to his chambers, as she does.

Anne is not there.

He’s not sure if he expects her to be; after all, she had been vehemently against her own presence here upon the arrival of the Scottish Queen; it had only been his appeal to her sense of curiosity that had convinced her to remain with him - in secret, for the sake of her own comfort as well as the new Queen’s.

Nonetheless, he is disappointed; he had been anxious to see her, seek her opinion on the show of it all. Seek solace in the passionate logic of her perspective, forever both at odds and perfect sync with his own.

His perfect match.

But not his wife.

No, his wife was to be - was to be a girl of barely twenty, a monarch in her own right, already a widow once-over.

Truly, Henry was not entirely sure how he had found himself here.

When he had first known Katherine - as a child, just a boy, fancying himself in love with the beautiful foreign Princess - he had thought he knew her to be his soulmate. His one and only true love; the keeper of his heart. He had called himself _Sir Loyal Heart_ and declared himself to her, again and again.

And God had punished them both for it.

Henry’s arrogance, his ignorance of his father’s will, of his brother’s seniority, his memory - had lead them both to endless grief, the infinite pain of one lost pregnancy after another, of infants who never took breath and a son, _his son_ , dead and cold only months after his birth. It had turned their fairytale love into a bitter story of death and hopelessness; one Henry blamed himself for, for both their sakes’.

Then, he had met Anne - and Henry had thought he had found the answer; his answer, his true wife, the woman that would secure the safety and legacy of England and the House of Tudor as well as matched the darkest, sharpest part of Henry’s soul; who understood him, _Harry_ , the man, more wholly than any being ever could.

It was within his punishment, Henry thought, that God would not let them be together - it was a test, to provide such a solution to his responsibility and duty to the realm all the while forcing him to deny his true heart.

It was the burden of a King; the sacrifice of divinity, to suffer.

Now, he had met the woman he would suffer with.

The Scottish Queen had made a striking figure atop her hunter, sitting confidently astride. She rode with dignity, dismounted with grace. She was a beautiful figure; dark, long hair was worn braided under a crown studded thickly with diamonds and crystal. Diamonds hung from her ears as well, and her riding cloak was a luxurious black, trimmed in fur of the same shade, creating a mesmerizing, glittering effect in the dazzle of the sun. Underneath she had worn a gold-green dress, square-cut trimmed in cloth-of-gold, the bodice embroidered in pearls and flowers embroidered in a thread of even deeper, forest green; topped magnificently by a heavy gold necklace, winking emeralds.

He had taken her in slowly; too purposefully, perhaps, but she had been a sight - and finally, he had met her eyes.

They were a deep brown; a dark, warm oak - and in the moment they held his, Henry felt himself very deeply _seen_.

And then they had swept away; she’d dipped her head, just slightly, eyelashes brushing prettily pinked cheeks. Catching himself, Henry had swept his arms wide, dipping at the waist deeper than he needed to.

“Your Majesty, I welcome you to England and your court,” he’d given, welcoming and open, and offered her his most charming grin as he rose.

Her lips had quirked, reflecting; her smile breaking wide across across the plump pillow of her mouth. It did not meet her eyes all the way, he had noted; they jumped, but the weight of them did not catch light.

“I thank you, Your Majesty. It has been a beautiful adventure to arrive here, and I look forward to our shared journey to London,” she’d said - speaking near perfect English, but accented in the slight twist of a native French speaker, a reminder of her upbringing - and, as Henry thinks of it now; oddly, _confusingly_ \- Anne. For Anne, it came out only on specific words, when she was specifically _passionate_ \- but the memory of the lilt in the Queen of Scots’ voice, rich with the precise pronunciation of one used to being listened to, nearly makes Henry smirk.

In the moment, he had bowed again, this time to catch her hand and brush his lips across her knuckles; and the rings they bore, mostly gold, all thinly looped upon long, delicate fingers. Her hands were not particularly pale, nor was her face, but her skin was smooth as alabaster, her palm soft against the callus of his fingertips.

Their escorts had applauded prettily for the performance of their meeting, and Henry had risen to lead her to her horse - to lift her to it, finding her light and tiny in his hands. It was a reminder of her age; her inexperience, her fragility. It was a reminder, too, of his duty to her as a husband, as a protector - for he would do his best to be a _good_ husband to her, even if he was not truly _hers_.

After all, Henry did not think it likely to be any secret that Anne had his love. It was why he had been so surprised by the Queen of Scots’ acceptance of their proposal. She was a young woman; widowed once, yes, but still with a full life ahead of her - the chance to love again, power and promise in her future. She was giving that up, marrying him.

And for what?

He did not know what to think that she was already so _\- pragmatic_ , in her decisions about love. Henry still hoped for passion in his marriage - even if it were not the partnership of his true soul; he would not be content with a frigidly unhappy wife, and it would certainly not lend to the making of heirs.

So, it was the question he had asked Anne, originally - when the answer had come back, when the Scottish Queen had agreed; _for what?_

_‘For her country, my love. For her ambition. I told you she was no child-bride, she is her own King.’_

_‘I am to marry a woman who is her own master?’_

_‘Yes. You were to either way, were you not?’_

Oh, he loved her. He loved her more than he thought it possible for any mortal to love another; and it was true, she was her own master, he more her servant than King.

He did not know what to make of it, that this was something she identified in his bride - her natural rival.

Henry did not know what to expect of that, either. He had so rarely in his life felt this uncertain; so uncontrolled. He could do nothing to protect Anne from the hurt of this, nor the hurt of all the things he must do in the future. And she _is_ hurting - that much has been clear since the beginning. She has been telling him, vehemently, to do his duty by his realm, by his new wife; she has encouraged him to treat her kindly, to partner with her, even - intelligent, rational, logical advice; but Henry hates to see the concede of defeat in her within it. Anne is not a woman like to lose; he knows that more intimately than most, having been at the mercy of her temper, brilliant and burning against the quick heat of his own, plenty of times. Still, in this she takes the side opposite what he expected - he had been ready for her anger, for her raging and her pain, when he told her he would have to take another as his wife. It was for the good of the realm; it ensured its stability, its future. It was his duty to his crown.

Oh, they had fought the first night. They had fought on since then - she had left him; for the first time in a long time, Henry had though she had _truly_ left him, and would not come back. Her acceptance of his gifts had given him little hope; he knew her likelihood to smash a precious thing if she was angry enough, and he was sure she was angry enough. He was angry enough, himself; furious that his hands had been tied tight between the Pope and Spain and _Katherine_ \- but he had also known he could not survive it without Anne.

So when she had come back - when she had made love to him for the first time, given herself to him and forgiven him, he had broken in relief. _You must have a legitimate son_ , she had agreed after - refusing to look at him, the words muttered so quietly he barely caught it. It was only his familiarity with them; the statement, the _determination_ , muttered constantly to himself in the back of his mind. Sometimes, it was near all he thought about - a boy, to carry on his name, his _father’s_ name. He could, would, waste hours thinking of what his son may look like; had for many months now been sure his eyes would have been a bright blue, sharp and twisting like the clearest of waves above dimples that charmed, that invited smiles and adoration seemingly without effort. He had pictured a boy to have all the athleticism of himself, Tudor height and copper hair, but the intelligence of his mother; all of Anne’s cleverness and wit.

But the future he and Anne had told themselves was possible was no more - melted away like snow in spring, leaving no proof of itself. The pictures in Henry’s mind have to change completely - the family he envisions, the _England_ , it is all different, and the mother of his sons will be a woman he has barely met.

Henry sighs, pushing himself up from where he had paused to brood in his chair. He crosses to the simple window, considering the purple-blue burn of the slowly setting sun above the port town’s distant horizon. A beautiful sight - uncommon, to Henry, at this far north corner of his realm for the first time in his life. But it did not salve the familiar wave of frustration at the inevitability of his predicament; truly inescapable now, with the presence of the Scottish Queen in this fortress. There was nearly no way out, no way back to his love and life as it should be.

He wanted to _blame_ someone - the Pope, Katherine, his new wife - but as stubborn as Henry was of his love for Anne, of their fate to be together - he could also see the benefits of this deal; and of his young betrothed, a Queen in her own right. With excellent lineage and coming with the promise of _unity_ , of the Crowns of this Isle sitting one day shared upon their son’s head.

A shiver moves through his spine - a chill, in the breeze from the ocean. Beautiful, but quick to cool after sunset in late spring; Henry moves away from the window, deciding to finally tuck away his rumination and call for his page.

He should not avoid it any longer; and he is growing more impatient to know her, to see more of the face he will find reflected in the children who will come after him.

“I’m going to meet a Queen,” Henry decides aloud, opting to redress with careful consideration. She may be young, but she is already once widowed, and was daughter-in-law to Catherine d’Medici. Henry knows enough about the woman, from rumours _and_ from Anne, who had grown up in service to Catherine’s eldest daughter, now Queen of Spain, to know that his future wife will not be impressed by obvious opulence or spectacle. French court was already a place of decadence and impractical luxury; the invitation of Italian influence, style and fashion via the Valois’ d’Medici connection was a world his new Queen had been raised in - Henry opted, instead, to highlight the contrast of his own, more sophisticated, English luxury. Mary had been married young, to a boy younger still; and though Henry had met Francis when he was a child, just the Dauphin, and knew that the rumours of his ill health were nothing but propaganda, he _also_ knew the boy had never been a man of great stature or strength - and, he had died early, leaving his young wife a widow before she had even truly become a woman.

Henry knows himself to still be youthful, but he is a man in a way her experience has not yet known, and he opts for practical dignity in his personal presentation. He wears a fine burgundy doublet, the brocade black against deep purple-red. The sleeves are slashed over a white shirt and the edges threaded with cloth-of-gold, and he wears a wide gold collar of gilt flowers, rubies studding the centers of each. It is proud, but subtle; he wears only his signet ring on his pinky finger, and his mother’s betrothal ring on his first.

He sends a page ahead while he dresses; they’re to meet formally, to lead their households into the Great hall to dine - but not so formal that they are either to be publicly presented to each other. The equality of their stations had complicated it; eventually, Wolsey had suggested that Henry simply meet the Queen in her own chambers once her household had been established, as he would whenever they may live together and dine publicly. To begin things as though they had already begun; it was, Henry agreed, the most optimistic thing to do.

“Gentlemen,” Henry begins once he’s entered his public chamber, where his household and nobility had gathered as they arrived. They sweep their bows and respects, and Henry lifts his chin, pulling himself to full height as they rise. “I’m to the Queen’s rooms,” he gives, and watches the words move by flick of eye and shifted foot throughout the room, “His Eminence, Cardinal Wolsey; His Grace, the Duke of Suffolk; Sir Thomas More - and Lord Rochford, shall accompany me,” he announces; George is surprised, he sees in the slight lift of the man’s brow. Henry supposes that is fair; but he knows Anne’s brother to be quick of wit and word, and appreciates his presence in any moment of tension. Besides that, he knows Anne’s spectacular curiosity will not be satisfied with details provided by his perspective alone. “The rest of you; my betrothed, Her Majesty the Queen of Scots and I shall meet you shortly for a feast!” He continues in exuberance, easily lifting the momentary disquiet of the room. His excitement is not so much a lie or falsehood; and he relishes his court’s appreciation of their King’s promised-future, the renewed sense of hope unavoidable with the event of a wedding.

Impatient now, the unfamiliar walk is both long and too short. He has been trying to imagine what they may say to each other; how he may ease any of her trepidation at the situation, how he may - _endear_ her to him. She is to be his wife, yes; she has a duty by him, but he has always been a man to pleasure in the ecstasy of his lovers, take pride in their satisfaction and lounge, subsequently, in their adoration.

He had sent his page with extra time as courtesy, and when they make the turn to her chambers they find a tall man, dark-haired and with a respectful, sombre expression, dressed in simple but fine clothes waiting with the guards. Henry recognizes him as an intimate member of the Scottish Queen’s arrival party, and he bows, though not too deep, and Henry waits for the introduction before gesturing for the man to rise.

“Your Majesty, I am James, Earl of Moray, half-brother to the Queen of Scots,” he says, and Henry schools his grimace. _The bastard_. Of royal blood, and given too much power because of it - dangerous, Henry thinks, for such an easily supported potential rival to be given the autonomy of regency. He did not know whether it had been a decision made more by the Queen or by her mother - but Henry considers the man as he straightens again; the stability of his gaze, a sharp blue set in an open face of straight, strong features.

“Lord Moray,” Henry gives, offering the slight incline of his head. He does not know what this man is to Mary, aside from their relation - where he sits in her confidence, if he has her ear. He thinks, rueful, though he hopes the feeling does not play across his features, of George’s tangibly energetic presence behind him - of his own sisters’ historic inclinations to waxing poetic of their loves to their brothers, the nostalgic twinge of his own protective temper. Henry knows it is best, always, to have the love of the brother for the love of the girl. He offers the man a smile - not quite conspiratorial, but friendly, and gestures to the door. “I come to greet your sister, my betrothed, and lead our people into dine,” he gives, and James nods, turning and gesturing to the guards.

The steadiness of the man’s silence is confident, rather than anxious, and Henry nods once when the guards look at him. The pikes clash and ring, the doors open, and the herald calls his arrival.

Henry enters the room, and once again, is faced with the Queen of Scots.

She and her ladies are all in a cluster together, next to a table laid in sets of jewels. Her ladies are sunk low in curtsies, and around him, Henry feels the movement of his gentlemen sweeping the foreign sovereign their bows.

The Queen, though - she stands; and for a beat, evenly meets his stare.

Again, Henry feels frozen; locked in place by the steadiness of her dark gaze. She blinks, once, and then smiles.

“Your Majesty,” she gives, inclining her head as her ladies rise with his gesture. “I was just trying to decide upon a necklace to wear for supper,” she has changed too; from riding clothes to a dress of fine, deep blue velvet. Her hair has been released from its braids, falling in waves down her shoulders with the edges pinned back from her face. “My ladies are inclined to this one, less busy with colour, but this is my favourite,” she explains, pointing first to a piece of silver-and-pearl, the chain alternating in small hanging pearls and large ones, set in silver frames; the pendant an ornate silver flower of four petals, set centered with the largest pearl of the piece - and then to another pearl piece, this one double-strung and decorated with amethysts set also in silver, each pendant hung with a pearl drop of its own. The latter is less ornate, but more striking, and Henry watches as the Queen lifts it carefully from its red velvet box, bringing it up to lay it against her collar.

She takes a breath, head tilting slightly in question, lips barely parted, holding the jewels against the swell of her breasts.

Henry is taken aback, confronted with a picture of desire defined.

“I must  agree with you, Madam. Stunning,” he remarks after what feels like hours, though it’s probably been barely a few seconds; though he knows no one around them has noticed a thing, even if he feels gravitationally _different_ , held fast by the slight quirk in the corner of her mouth - an amusement; perhaps - a challenge; absolutely.

She finishes the smile; wide and bright and still not meeting her eyes, then nods as she half-turns, gesturing to her ladies. Automatically, they gather; lifting her hair to pull the piece around her neck, securing it comfortably in place and offering a looking glass for her confirmation.

“Pray tell me of your adventures, Queen of Scots, while I accompany you to dine?” Henry offers, moving to stand beside her. Smiling again - still a _bite_ , but with a promise of softening - she allows him to tuck her hand into his elbow. Around them, their households make their own introductions, Henry’s gentlemen offering their own arms to her ladies.

Henry pays them no mind - the pressure of Mary’s hand is slight inside his elbow, and Henry subtly considers the stature of her beside him. She is shorter than him; not too considerably, but has a height illusioned by the simple coronet she wears, silver thinly wrought in delicate, lace-like designs. It glints brightly alongside her other jewellery - rings, a thick rope of braided silver looped twice around her wrist. Her corset is a rich, midnight blue against the navy of her skirts, and studded in seed pearls, following a twirling pattern embroidered into the fabric. She’s every inch the Queen, mesmerizing, and Henry loses himself once more in the glittering effects of her, a moon to her earlier show of sun. He realizes, standing next to her, that another rope of silver has been woven into her hair on his side of her; another braid, thinner than before. Her hair is not so black as Anne’s, he notes; not a blue-black, but the same sort of sun-touched richness as her eyes, a stark, warm background to the dazzle of her adornments.

“ - I find it wild, how green everything is; but comforting all at once. It feels forever fresh here, even if the rain can carry quite a chill,”  she’s saying, and Henry flicks his eyes back to hers - she glances at him, perhaps with his movement, perhaps to gauge his response - and Henry smiles at her once more, finds the melt of it across his mouth to be an easy thing under her gaze.

“Of course, I’ve been told it’s quite the adjustment - to come from the continent. We’ll have to begin a collection of furs for you, to keep warm through our winters,” he muses, trying hard not to think of his former wife’s own penchant for spending the season close to a fire, and instead focusing on the opportunity to spoil - to _woo_ , this new little Queen of his. Though perhaps, little Queen is not quite so accurate - for she fixes him with a sidelong look, glancing quickly back between them and then forward again before she speaks.

“I had thought that _you_ may keep me warm through the winter, My Lord,” she says quietly, and he can see the bright, brilliant burst of red on her cheek with the daring words. Henry feels the rush of heat himself with the implication; low in his belly, and sharp through his back, his shoulders. A reinforcement of her tableau; she is the moon, a Venus, and he does not know if she intends it or not. He flexes the fingers of his free hand, fighting the urge to _grab_ \- she is looking at him again, now, a slight smile on her lips - he thinks, looking at the challenging arch of her eyebrow, more genuine than before. She’s teasing him - but the flush of her face tells him she also _means_ it.

He’s not _\- sure_ , of her bawdiness, for a moment. It is certainly not befitting, after all - but he thinks then, perhaps it is; Mary is a monarch, ruling her country in her own right - guided by men, to be sure, but a _leader_ nonetheless. They are betrothed formally, already; they are to be married within the week. The terms of their marriage are set upon the making of heirs - he supposes it’s nothing but _productive_ , that they be honest with that - and he knows it to be the way of himself, of any King or Princely man he’s ever met, to be clear about what they want, when they want it; explicit without hesitation, assured of their will and rights.

“I would be a fool of a man and King to leave a woman such as yourself to a chill,” he gives back, and Mary smiles just _barely_ more, just enough for him to feel - _driven_ , the rush of exhilaration in banter with a beautiful woman. For the Queen of Scots is that,  undeniably; a beautiful woman - a fact he had already known, one spoken by every ambassador and diplomat who had met her; her features are strong and straight as her brother’s, above pillowed, pink lips, all set in an oval face of high cheekbones, brow expressive above eyes of warm darkness, reminding him somehow both of the forest in winter and the honey-heat of late summer. Her prettiness is sweet, trustworthy and warm in a way that comes only from a heart of genuine kindness. It’s a face, Henry thinks, that’s seen sorrow; he can see where she may have once been leant to quick laughter in the openness of her half-smiles, but that sunniness had been washed away, visible in the calculating sweep of her gaze across him, breaking away from the lock of his eyes.

Mary, Queen of Scots, his future wife - is a beautiful woman; but she is a sad woman, worn beyond her years. In the simple, single assessment of her, he senses a hard-wrought iron in the straight line of her shoulders.

With an ache, he’s reminded of Anne once more.

The rest of the evening is a blur of introductions and announcements - Mary has arrived with an entourage smaller than the household that will eventually join them in London, but still, Henry knows he will only be able to remember faces from today - and, most likely not many of those. He does his best with the details - two of his new Queen’s ladies come with considerable reputations; first, a strikingly beautiful girl of warm-toned skin and honey-coloured hair - she’s the wife of Mary’s personal Deputy, the head of her guard, and Henry nearly misses the name before the girl is gone; Kenna de Poitiers. She’s the French Henri's one-time Mistress, just as Henry’s own Mary Boleyn had once been; and now, apparently, married to the man’s eldest bastard son.

Henry is a man of manners and a monarch and does not react when he makes the realization; nor when he recognizes Lola Fleming, mother of Francis’ bastard.

His bride-to-be has brought with her a court of mistresses and royal bastard blood; and the irony of Anne’s presence in the castle is not lost on him.

Still, it makes him nervous, two royal French bastards in his court, one who had already made an attempt at the French throne; with, it was rumoured, the support of the young woman on Henry’s left. Whomever their mothers or wives may be - it made him nervous.

And, It made him excited; thrilled by ambition, the potentials.

Aside from her brother, the rest of Mary’s household is mostly lost on him. She had brought her guard with her, and the members of her Privy Council; but it was not so large a retinue as Henry’s and she tells him it will be smaller, too, before they travel.

“My Council will return to Scotland after our departure, with my brother James continuing on as Regent in my absence. The greater part of my court will meet us in London,” she explains, and he nods along, privately protesting again at the power she gives her half-brother. He decides they will discuss it. He would help her appoint a more appropriate Regent - after all, at the very least, they could be powerful political partners - he could teach her, enlighten her to the cruel practicalities of ruling and power - help her hone that ambition, the drive Anne reported of her.

The introductions of Henry’s own court is more extensive than Mary’s had been - but he watches her focus, narrow individually on each person before her as they are introduced. It’s fascinating; her energy, her sincerity. She is as genuine in her interest with his untitled courtiers as the Duke of Suffolk and Henry’s sister, the latter of whom Mary seeks out after supper, amidst the dancing.

As Henry watches them together, laughing like old friends, Charles comes to him.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, takes the seat beside Henry when he nods without looking away from their women. “You seem… captivated.”

Henry shoots him a glance, then. Charles is rather pointedly not looking at him, instead his wife, and Henry rolls his eyes.

“She is captivating,” he admits, shrugs. “Would you say any different?”

“No,” Charles says, shaking his head. He turns, now looking at Henry. “It was a pleased observation, your Majesty. I want you to be happy, as you deserve to be, more than any other to be sure. It’s all that Margaret wants, as well.”

Henry grimaces. His sister’s opinion of Anne was no secret to him; and she was not publicly subtle, either. Darkly, he wonders if that is the purpose of Mary’s interest in her.

He supposes he cannot begrudge her it, if it is. She is taking a great risk - and for Anne to be discovered here would be a great insult to her and Scotland, he knows.

Anxiety thrills in his chest; a common feeling, since the betrothal was agreed. Sharp and painfully fluttering, Henry shifts the uncomfortable tightness from his shoulders.

“She’s already a good Queen, even in circumstances of civil religious unrest, her crown under constant threat,” Henry gives, acknowledging the realities of the rule of the woman across the room. She was in as exceedingly difficult a position as he had been, different though their situations may be.

And she was alone.

“She has all the qualities of a good wife. It will be an easy enough marriage,” he goes on, and Charles sighs, an almost chuckle of a sound.

“As I said, Your Majesty,” Charles’ hand claps his shoulder; Henry realizes he is staring again. “Captivated.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go bois. comments & feedback always welcome and appreciated!!
> 
>  
> 
> (character's appearances have been based on the shows i've leaned most heavily on for individual characterization; ie. henry is repeatedly described as short because jrm's kinda short y'all)


	3. honesty & youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes,” Mary says, and she’s not looking at Anne, and Anne thinks she’s not really answering her, either; instead turning the letter over in her fingers again, pausing at the broken seal. “Call me Mary, Anne. I would speak honestly with you.”
> 
> The words are abrupt; the woman lifts her head and looks at Anne, and her eyes are dark, and hard, and a King’s.
> 
> Anne exhales. She nods, barely; feels stiff and frozen before this woman in a way she has not before, never was with Katherine. The Queen of Scots is not angry with Anne; she does not hate her – but she is not afraid of her, either.
> 
> “I suppose it is the only way for us to speak, Your Majesty,” Anne agrees, presses her tongue between her lips with a breath of correction; “Mary.”
> 
> And so she edges dangerously with yet another monarch, arrogantly intimate with divinity. Anne can taste blood.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX** ****

**HONESTY & YOUTH** ****

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

JUNE, 1527  
BERWICK CASTLE, NORTHUMBERLAND **  
****LADY ANNE BOLEYN**

 

Anne thinks she may vomit.

Not _truly_ – she has no food in her stomach anyway, appetite well diminished by worries after receiving the Scottish page; but her heart is in her mouth nonetheless, pulse fluttering a determined panic in her throat.

She had insisted on responding to the Queen’s summons alone – George had wanted to come; their sister had kept saying she ought to seek the King’s permission, first – but Anne had ignored them. This was an inevitability, after all; Anne and Mary would have to meet eventually – and it was by Henry’s own insistence that Anne was here in the first place. It was not as though he could _refuse_ either of them; what would he do, pretend Anne did not exist? Establish stone of his own making between his mistress and wife from the first moment?

No. Henry would panic – Henry would get _angry_ , at his lack of control, his lack of options. He was not a man who oft heard ‘no’ and Anne knew already that he was unsettled, _uncomfortable_ , about his soon-to-be-wife’s status. Mary was a foreign monarch who had every right to seek the company of a noblewoman in the court she was visiting; moreso, she would be Anne’s Queen shortly, and Anne did not think she _or_ Henry would have the right to refuse her, then.

Nonetheless; Anne’s sick with anxiety, and more than irritated with herself for it. Queen or no, she’s six years older than Mary; Anne had known her as a child, and through Catherine – she was not someone Anne had ever been _intimidated_ by, and it was not a pattern she wanted to begin now.

Damn Henry, and damn how well he knew her; his ability to play against Anne’s better judgement and talk her into joining him here. The current circumstances are entirely of _his_ doing and Anne feels no guilt in not speaking to him first; really, she’s barely even concerned when she encounters one of his pageboys in the hall, though she’s clearly on her way to Queen Mary’s current lodgings. The boy bows and runs off; no doubt to report to his master, though exactly _what_ he will say Anne isn’t sure – and Anne finds herself approaching two Scottish guards.

“The Queen is expecting me,” Anne gives, drawing herself to full height and lifting her chin. She will not let these men look down on her; no more than she allows it from the English nobles. She knows what she is – she knows _who_ she is. Their thoughts about it hardly matter at all.

They nod, but much to Anne’s comfort, there is no clash of pikes or shouted announcement. Instead, the guard on the left raps knuckles against the door, which opens to a tall, dark-haired man, shortly recognizable as the Queen’s gentleman sentinel from the day before.

“Mistress Boleyn,” he gives, offering a stilted bow and gesturing for her to enter the room. “I am James, Earl of Moray,” he says as he takes her hand, pressing a courtesy kiss to her knuckles. Anne nods, ducking her own curtsey.

“The Queen’s half-brother,” she says, and he nods.

“My grander title,” he says – a jest, Anne thinks, but there’s a hardness to his mouth as he says it that she can’t quite decipher. It could be resentment for his sister and his position; it could be a reaction to Anne. “Her Majesty is waiting for you,” he says, gesturing to the curtains hung to separate the small public chamber from the personal lodgings. With that, he steps out of the door to join the guards, and Anne is left to collect herself alone.

She allows herself the grace of a single, long breath; closes her eyes as she inhales, steeling herself, letting the breath from her mouth and stepping forward. She hesitates for a beat, then curls fingers in the corner of the curtain, pulling it back a hairsbreadth.

The privy chamber is small as well; to be sure, some centuries ago these would have been the grandest rooms in the castle, aside from the King’s - but it had been so long since Berwick had been used as a royal residence that everything was outdated. What had been resplendent generations ago was now cramped and unimpressive.

At least, that had been Anne’s assessment of the castle upon their arrival. It _felt_ old; sea salt was embedded in the walls, histories and horrors trapped between the spray and the stone. It had been _cold_ ; clearly a one-time stronghold and fortress, it was built for practicality, not luxury, and Anne had felt ghosts around every corner whenever she stopped long enough to listen for them.

The Queen’s rooms however, are shockingly _warm_. Inviting; more cozy than claustrophobic, the curtains are drawn back, bathing the room in sunlight. The windows face the northern coast, and the light reflected off the water dapples on the ceiling of the room, the edges of the walls; the girl, seated center, near enough a low-banked fire to combat the draft.

Mary is not facing her. She’s seated in an armchair, one of two before the fire; her back isn’t entirely turned to Anne, but she has her head bent over a letter. Her hair is pulled back from her face by a braid; one Anne assumes is doubled from her other temple, because it’s met center above her shoulder and widened, braided with what look like strands of gold. It’s all very pretty, and Anne can see the angle of her profile perfectly; she looks much as she did when she was younger – long eyelashes sweeping round cheeks, a straight nose, high forehead. A small gold earring, hung with a pendant of emerald, drops just to the edge of her jaw; it’s the only jewellery she wears, and her head lifts a beat later, turning to look at Anne.

It’s a singular movement; a simple expression. Mary’s face is blank, eyes dark as they flicker over Anne – and then she smiles, just barely, and folds the letter up, gesturing to the seat across from her.

“Mistress Boleyn. Please, sit,” she invites, and Anne doesn’t let herself hesitate, drops into her curtsey – deep, appropriate, but does not hold it, lifting and crossing to take the armchair.

The Queen sets the folded letter to the side; the deep blue seal is broken, but Anne can make out the triplet head of the French Fleur-de-lis.

Mary is still smiling; a gentle curve to the corner of her mouth, and then she’s pouring a second cup of wine set on the table between them. “Thank you for coming,” the woman says, sitting back with her own cup. Anne does not scoff, but she can’t keep the rueful turn to her mouth buried completely.

“Did I have a choice, Your Majesty?”

Silence. Mary says nothing; she only smiles wider before she drinks deep, then shakes her head.

“No. I suppose not,” she gives, and there’s almost a laugh to the bright bend of her voice. Involuntary, Anne tilts her head. It’s – _endearing_ ; the easy confidence of the girl before her. She feels no need to explain herself; clearly, and why would she? Anne is the daughter of an English diplomat; beyond that, she is the Queen’s greatest rival. They are natural enemies, and Mary owes her no kindness.

Still, she clearly offers it; her mannerisms betray no malice, her tone has not yet put Anne on trial.

“It’s not poisoned, you know,” Mary says, gesturing to the cup left for Anne. “I was not with Catherine _that_ long.”

The jest is easy; companionable. Anne only considers a moment before she laughs; it’s nearly no calculation, _nearly_ , and she picks up the cup with a nod.

“The Queen of France and her perfumes,” Anne agrees, smiling in a way she intends to be comfortable. Mary hums.

“Queen Mother,” she corrects quietly, so Anne can barely hear it – but she _does_ , and she nods, setting the cup down once she’s proven she’s not afraid.

“Of course. Queen Mother – and Regent?” Anne asks; she knows Catherine had been elected, but she also knows how quickly the tides can change, and pointedly eyes the folded parchment at Mary’s side.

The Queen nods, then follows Anne’s gaze.

“Yes. Now that she has the Regency I don’t expect her to relinquish it until the moment Charles is crowned,” Mary gives, fingers catching the letter and lifting it so Anne can see the seal more clearly. “This is from the King of France, however, not the Regent,” she says, turning it over in her hands to show the short, neat script drug across the page. “Charles is still a dear friend of mine, and I hope he remains as such.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. You were with him in France a long time, he grew up with you.”

“Yes,” Mary says, and she’s not looking at Anne, and Anne thinks she’s not really _answering_ her, either; instead turning the letter over in her fingers again, pausing at the broken seal. “Call me Mary, Anne. I would speak honestly with you.”

The words are abrupt; the woman lifts her head and looks at Anne, and her eyes are dark, and hard, and a King’s.

Anne exhales. She nods, barely; feels stiff and _frozen_ before this woman in a way she has not before, never was with Katherine. The Queen of Scots is not angry with Anne; she does not hate her – but she is not afraid of her, either.

“I suppose it is the only way for us to speak, Your Majesty,” Anne agrees, presses her tongue between her lips with a breath of correction; “Mary.”

And so she edges dangerously with yet another monarch, arrogantly intimate with divinity. Anne can taste blood.

The girl almost smiles; almost. It is a harder thing than before; the sunny youth of her face is like stone, but Anne doesn’t - _feel_ threatened. She feels alight; _alert_ , hyper-aware of the room around her, of the weight of her body in the chair, the press of her feet to the floor and the way the Queen is looking at her, like consideration, like _respect_.

“You know, Francis knew he was going to die, days – weeks before he did.”

Anne cannot look away from her; it is a straight, hard statement, and Mary says it with all the hesitation of the sea breaking into the rocks below them. It is a crash of words, and Anne doesn’t know what to make of them.

“…Forgive me, Mary,” Anne starts, shifting forwards toward the woman. “Did your late husband  not die in a fight?”

It’s not a clarification she wishes to seek; not a question she had _ever_ thought she would ask, when she’d encouraged Henry to send his proposal. Then again; Anne did not think she would be asking many questions of Mary at all.

“He did,” the woman says, nodding, setting the letter to the side again. Her hands smooth her skirts flat, then find the arms of her chair to rest. “But he was sick, before that. Gravely. We discussed his death, planned for my future without him, the future of France. Charles and I were to marry,” she explains, and Anne feels pinned; trapped, by the story and the situation. “France and Scotland were in religious crisis both, as they are now. I needed French troops and Francis could not appear weak. We met dignitaries, pretended at his health… tried to…” she trails off, eyes drifting from Anne’s to something else, distant in time and place

“Why are you telling me this?”

Anne blurts the question; she cannot help it, cannot help the flush of heat under her collar or the discomfort in her spine. She does not want to _be_ here; she does not know the end of this conversation, she does not know the _point_ of this. To be at odds with Henry’s new wife is not her goal, but she certainly doesn’t intend to be her _friend_ . They are enemies; natural rivals, Anne may be able to make peace with the _concept_ of the woman, but she does not want to be familiar with her so-called counterpart to Henry’s affections; she does not want to know her usurper, the woman who will raise a family with the man she loves.

Regardless, Mary is smiling.

She’s not _really_ smiling; her mouth is like a sad curve in her face, just barely tilted to be lopsided, the unnatural disruption of a straight line.

“You’re uncomfortable,” the Queen says, and Anne forces herself to breathe out slowly, forces herself to keep locked on the dark gaze boring into hers.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t understand,” Anne says shortly; maybe an answer, maybe not. Perhaps just an exclamation; perhaps just a _point_ to make. This is – _foolish_ , she thinks. She had come because she was summoned; she had come _alone_ to meet the woman, to establish their grounds, the lines they would not cross. She had not meant to sit down, to talk, as friends may – so why was that what _Mary_ had wanted?

“I’m telling you this because I _want_ you to understand, Anne. I didn’t marry Charles, because I could not. I loved my husband; I loved Francis with all of my soul, all of my being. I could not move on and be with his brother; I did not believe I could move on and be with _anyone_ ,” Mary takes a breath, shifts in her seat to turn from Anne, facing the fire instead, bringing her wine to her lips. It’s quiet. Anne watches her; the red drop that collects at the edge of her mouth, running into a single rivulet at the corner of her jaw. Mary’s hand comes up to draw across her face; but she does not look at Anne again. “If it were not for my country I would not be here. If it were not for the sake of my people, the importance of peace at the borders; of an established succession – I would not be here, Anne,” she goes on, and the cup is loud against the wood of the table as she turns back again. “I would not have him if I did not have to.”

Mary’s face is open, honest; her eyes a little wide, and wet – shimmering with it, she does not cry, but Anne can see that she often has, or else she would not be so confident of keeping it at bay.

It’s something Anne has come to understand, in the last months; the ability to bury her emotions, to _feel_ only when it is a benefit to her.

Anne sighs.

“You are telling me there will be no rivalry,” Anne says, and Mary nods, relaxing back into her seat again.

“Yes,” she says, “I want to be as happy as I can here, Anne. But I will find that happiness in the love of my friends, and eventually my children. Not with the King. Christendom knows his heart is yours,” Mary offers, and though she still looks almost on the verge of tears, she smiles again, and Anne feels herself warm with it. She’s still _irritated_ – uncomfortable. She would still rather be anywhere but here, she thinks – but this is important. Even Anne can admit that. “I would not try to take it from you,” Mary finishes.

Anne nods. She nods, and considers this Queen; young, but without the optimism of it; there is no hopefulness, no light to the youth of her. She is a blade; steel forged, held in the fire and beat until it rang bright, and struck sharp.

“Mary, may I be personal?"

“That is the point, isn’t it?”

Anne takes a breath, forces herself not to look away, keeps herself from clenching her hands in her skirts and speaks. “Have you – have you _ever_ been young?”

Mary laughs. It’s a sudden thing; a surprise to Anne, and she thinks, perhaps a surprise to Mary herself, a burst of noise against the muffled coziness of the room. It’s a short thing, too; Mary falls quickly back into silence, into looking at the fire instead of Anne, seeing things, Anne thinks, that are not there; that are no longer alive. She does not turn back.

“I was when I was with Francis."

The woman before her had watched the man she loved die - twice. It was an absurd notion; laughable in the ridiculous pain of it. She was not truly a child, Anne knew - the girl was nearing twenty - but she had always been whispered of in such infantile terms; like a cherub angel, the girl-Queen of Scotland. Even in the raves of her beauty and strength, she was endlessly framed by a window of innocence. Anne realizes, now, that she had allowed that to make her doubt the woman - doubt her gravity and position, doubt the reality of her life. Not even a fortnight old, Mary had become a Queen - alone. With Regents, yes; supporters - but alone; a child of the wrong sex to play on the political stage. The rush of respect she feels for Mary is sudden; it is hard, overwhelming and laden in stone. There is sympathy to it, but Anne knows without question that this is not a situation for sympathy; that the Queen of Scotland has had very few of those in her lifetime, whatever powers and luxuries she may have been born to. There is no time for pain, or grief.

Anne takes a breath.

With an absolute certainty, Anne knows she’s made the right decision.

She thinks - hopes - that they all have.

 

 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**LADY LOLA FLEMING**

Mary dismisses her ladies after breaking her fast with them, leaving them to their own amusements until their evening attendance upon her – Kenna, unsurprisingly, wanders off to find Bash, and Lola and Greer make their way to their children. Aloysius had re-employed his children’s French Governess upon his release, whom took charge of Guillame, Angeline and Gemma – but John and Rose, much younger and close in age to each other, were cared for together by a single maid, employed by Mary for Lola and Greer both upon their return to Scotland. It had been her insistence; determined to make it as easy as possible to keep Lola and Greer in her service - and, Lola thought that Mary rather _enjoyed_ having the children around, having allocated quarters at Stirling for both women, as well as a pseudo-nursery – and considered Greer’s governess and John’s maid as members of her own household.

They dismiss both women for the rest of the morning; rescuing the Castleroy children from their tutors and freeing them, with the babies, to the sunlight of the old fortress’ gardens.

There’s a cool breeze carried off the water to them, refreshing and pleasant, and even Greer doesn’t protest when Angeline pulls her hair free of its cap, abandoning her shoes and demanding a race from her brother. Unsurprisingly, Guillame – breeched barely a year before – howls laughter at his elder sister’s taunting, kicking off his own shoes and breaking into a run before anyone says _Go_. Angeline screeches, feet slipping in the grass on a late start – and then she’s off after the six year old, sprinting determinedly to reach his flailing arms and giggling.

Gemma, eleven and very preoccupied with being much more grown-up than her younger siblings, makes a show of shaking her head and sighing disapproval. Greer grins, shifting her grip on Rose, tucked against her side. “You don’t want to play, Gemma?”

“They’re so _childish_ ,” she groans, put-upon and shaking her head.

“Well, they are children,’ Greer gives, and Gemma offers her a sidelong glance. “As are you.”

“ _Hardly_ ,” Gemma intones, waving a dismissive hand. It’s all Lola can do to bite her lip, keeping her attention on John’s toddling steps before her to keep from laughing aloud at the sheer _disdain_ in the girl’s voice. It reminds her of Kenna when they were younger, and Greer shoots Lola a quick look, the jump of a laugh in her eyes. “Her Majesty Queen Mary says I may join her household as a maid-in-waiting when I turn twelve. I’m nearly a woman, Greer,” she says pointedly, and Greer smiles, a hand drifting protectively over Rose’s back.

Gemma is almost as tall as Greer; unsurprising, when Aloysius’ eldest son Alphonse has towered over them all for years already. The girl is a redhead as her elder sister was – a memory now, a ghost; one Lola knows Greer’s guilt for in painful detail – and already beautiful; blue eyes and a full mouth, she has the easiness of her father’s gait and smile, contrasted against a sharp tongue and lack of impulse control Lola supposes must come from her mother. Lola doesn’t know much of Aloysius’ wife before Greer; he never speaks of her aside from being the mother of his children, and Lola has never wanted to press Greer for answers she may not have.

“Nearly is not already,” Greer clarifies, and brings her free hand up to pull Gemma’s hair back from her temple, tucking it behind her ear as they walk. Barely, Gemma leans into her stepmother’s touch; they’ve always been comfortable with her, from what Lola’s seen – and she’s experienced firsthand the comfort of maternal affection from Greer, how easy it is to trust her. The familial affection doesn’t surprise her, but it makes her feel warm, turns in the corner of her mouth. Greer deserves this, Lola knows; a family, children to love and raise, a security to call home. “Her Majesty’s offer was very kind, but we must have your father’s approval. He may not want you to live at court longer than you must with me.”

“Where else would I go?” Gemma asks, incredulous, eyebrow arched as she half-turns to them both. _To your father,_ Lola thinks; does her best to keep her expression neutral, betraying nothing of her knowledge of Greer and Aloysius’ disharmony. It was not a dislike, Lola was sure – not even a lack of love; but they had both changed so much in their separation, had experienced trials the other could not understand. “And how would I find a _proper_ English husband if I was not at court?”

Greer squeezes Gemma’s shoulder, drifting her hand down her back, then readjusts her grip on Rose again. “Don’t worry yourself about these things, Gemma. Your father won’t want you to marry before you’re sixteen, and he will help you find a husband. You may not want to marry an Englishman, by then; what if you were to return to France?”

It’s a topic change, subtle and simple, but Gemma shakes her head. “There would be no position for me at French court,” she says shortly, and Greer sighs quietly.

Her eldest stepdaughter’s ambition is already fierce.

“Do you want to take the baby?” Greer offers, distracting, and Gemma beams, turning and nodding as she reaches for Rose. Playing at motherhood is as much a pillar of Gemma’s determination to grow up as anything else, and Greer’s stepchildren had come to love their adopted sister fiercely. Greer had confided that she did not think Alphonse, fifteen, entirely believed that they had adopted Rose, but he had never said anything against his stepmother, at least nothing that Greer had ever passed on. “Keep an eye on your brother and sister too, please,” Greer requests as Gemma moves away from them, muttering to a giggling Rose about the fountain at the other end of the garden – where Guillame and Angeline had stopped to catch their breaths, and laughter could be heard between the pair.

John, forever fearlessly confident in a way that makes Lola both nervous and proud, determinedly toddles after Gemma, who stops to offer a hand out to him when he calls for her.

“Perhaps we should not have dismissed the maid,” Lola says, and Greer smiles, shaking her head.

“It gives her an excuse to play without making her feel like a baby,” Greer explains, watching as Gemma helps Rose stand up on the edge of the fountain. John does his best to lean over it, trying to look – but Guillame can reach farther, and there’s a screech when he splashes John, who drops back on the grass.

There’s a beat – Lola holds her breath – but her son breaks into a peel of laughter, not sobbing, giggling madly when Guillame splashes him again. “We ought to have changed their clothes, though,” Greer admits in a sigh, and Lola laughs.

“I’ve given up trying to keep John clean,” she says, offers a single-shouldered shrug. “King’s son or no, he just… loves mud,” she continues, and Greer laughs, nodding.

Bringing John home to Scotland with her had been an easier task than Lola thought it would be; she had expected Catherine to fight her every step of the way, insisting on custody of her grandson. Catherine had never particularly _liked_ Lola, after all – aside from the brief stint where she had tried to encourage Lola into becoming Francis’ mistress. Lola had always supposed that Catherine simply disliked anyone or anything associated with Mary – but then, it had become personal; a rivalry for Narcisse’s affections.

In retrospect, Lola thinks that may have been the most distasteful thing about him. She had always known she couldn’t trust him; as far as Lola was concerned, she could trust no one but her Queen and her friends, in her life since childhood, anymore – but it had been his outright _juggling_ of Lola and Catherine; his apparent lack of concern for Lola’s safety by earning Catherine’s jealousy – it was selfish of him, Lola thinks now; selfish, and manipulative. For the hundredth time, Lola gives silent thanks to God for Francis’ intercession; it was not the only reason she had not accepted Narcisse’s offer of marriage, but it had been a pointed reminder that he was _not_ who he played himself to be.

As present as if he was beside her now, Francis' words burn through her thoughts, _‘He’ll never feel my love. He needs a man in his life. To protect him, to guide him - to show him right from wrong.’_ Lola had been frustrated, initially, by Francis’ stubbornness; but that conversation; when Lola had so clearly seen the father of her child confronted with the reality of his own mortality, the fact that his country and all those he loved would have to survive without him, had been a turning point.

She’d known then that so much of her anger at Francis was just grief for him, the loss of all his possibilities as a King, a father, a husband and friend; grief for the loss their son must endure, and fear for them to be without the protection of Francis’ beating heart. Knowing that; and knowing that her son was the only thing that _truly_ mattered to her, the most important thing she would ever do, had made it easy to let Narcisse go. Refusing him had not been; but with Catherine’s agreement that John should be with his mother, and would be safer in Scotland, the son of one of the Queen’s ladies, than at court in France – Lola had been able to leave Narcisse behind literally, and completely.

Lola considered her son’s peal of giggles, Angeline now helping him reach over the fountain to throw water at Guillame. She was endlessly grateful that Catherine and Charles had agreed to Lola’s custody of Francis’ son. She knew the risk he was at by virtue of nothing but _existing_ , an acknowledged royal bastard – it was not a risk posed only in France, but it would be more difficult for rebels to make a figurehead of him, buried in the north, if discontent grew under Charles’ rule. As it was, the Queen Mother and the new King both thought John and themselves better off with John across the channel – though Lola still received the income from John’s estates, as well as a stipend from Catherine for John’s care. Those, along with Lola’s wages from her position in Mary’s household, were allowing her to put a small amount away every month. Slowly, Lola was becoming confident and settled in her ability to care for herself and John – she may not be able to offer him the life Francis had meant for him – the titles he wanted to bestow on his son; the responsibilities, intent on making him an active figure in his court in a way Bash had never been allowed to be, legitimate or not; but he would have an education befitting the status of his birth and blood, and would never be set apart by a lack of learning, manners or finery.

Despite her growing confidence and comfort, however, Lola could not help but _want_ . She was a mother, a woman grown; married once and bedded more – she knew her own desires, she knew what it was to love and be loved; and she knew she would _not_ go without it.

Mary’s frigid acceptance of her fate had struck Lola darkly – she mourned for her friend, and all the pieces of her heart she’d buried with Francis’ body; Mary was barely twenty, and already had given up on her chances at happiness. She considered her life in terms of strategy; and, Lola supposed, that was safest for them all – but her Queen’s apparent content with isolation was not something Lola could mirror. However she may feel in terms of whom she could trust; her trepidation at inviting any man into John’s life when he could so easily be made a tool of ambition, Lola knows she doesn’t want to be without male companionship forever. She wants to get married again; not soon – not to any man she’s met thus far – but she _wants_ to be a wife; wants to have more children, build a family, _settle._

Being settled, Lola thinks, is something they’ve all earned.

“Have you received any word from Aloysius since we left Stirling?” Lola asks Greer under her breath, and Greer nods.

“He had some bolts of brocade sent from Portugal for the girls – a new pair of shoes for Guillame, before they left. His letter said they would be in Florence next, then visit the Doge of Venice – Aloysius apparently has a long rapport with him, and he says they’re likely to spend the winter there, then come to England in the spring.”

It’s a list of current events; an update on location. She says nothing of _him_ , and says nothing of his asking after her – silently, Lola reaches to twine her fingers with her friends.

“I miss him,” Greer breathes, soft. Her grip tightens in Lola’s. “Sometimes I feel I’ve been missing him since we married. I worry he does not _want_ to come home.”

Lola nods, drifts her thumb up and down the back of Greer’s hand. “He hasn’t had a home to return to in a long time,” she observes gently, and Greer nods. “It must be a frightening idea.”

“I cannot offer him comfort when he will not _confide_ in me –“ Greer starts, a rush of frustration, and then stops, fingers flexing in Lola’s as she takes a breath. “I worry he resents me, for Rose,” she admits softly. “It already took so much for him to trust me after Leith.”

Lola’s not surprised by the words; it was a situation beyond _complicated_ . Aloysius had been as good as dead until his ‘release’ from prison – and even before that, he had offered Greer a divorce, when it had become clear his Protestantism was putting them all in danger. Lola did not think Greer had done anything wrong in behaving as a single woman; particularly, a single _common_ woman making her own way in the world. She had adjusted to her life as she had accepted it to be; he may have turned out to be a scoundrel, but Lola had not thought a wealthy pirate an uncouth match for a successful madam.

“He’s told you he does not, Greer. He loves Rose. You were practically a widow.”

“But I _wasn’t_ ,” Greer insists, tongue snapping hard against her teeth. She shakes her head. “I love Rose. I would not give her up for the world – I would take nothing back. But I know exactly how difficult a life I’ve created for her; I know I hurt Aloysius, over _again_. He is not a broken man, but what he’s endured – he’s not whole, either,” Greer drops Lola’s hand, smoothing her skirts as they both move to sit on a stone bench, distanced enough from the children to give them a little independence, but close enough to hear the difference between a laugh and a cry. “And he does not trust me. So I cannot trust him,” Greer flashes her a dark look – something she’s only become capable of in the last two years, a hardness in her eyes, a set to her mouth, that she’d never had before.

Lola does not think _any_ of them are whole, anymore.

“He’s never seemed to be the kind of man who would – _punish_ you, if he was angry.”

“No, he isn’t,” Greer agrees, exhaling shakily. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS**

Mary barely sleeps.

She spends half the night thinking of her soon-to-be husband, and the other half thinking of his mistress. It’s infuriating, a solitary game of tennis trapped between her ears; she’s both fascinated by and frustrated by Henry - she feels both steadily confident and infinitesimal in Anne’s presence. She cannot decide where she stands with herself; nor with either of them. Henry _wants_ her, yes - made clear by his dutifully vulgar eye, by the singularly focused attention Mary has enjoyed in his presence, the few times they’ve now met; but she’s not so sure that he _likes_ her, and truly, Mary is just as unsure as to her own feelings.

The man is handsome and fit, sure enough; they are an attractive couple, Mary thinks, matched well together in height, the contrast of his complexion a highlight to the consistent warmth of her own. He is a King with the love of his subjects; his courtiers seem to orbit about him even more ardently than the most brown-nosing of nobles in France - and it is a more _honest_ sort of fawning, a genuine adoration of their monarch, sincere in their desires to be cast in his light. She sees why, too; he is charming, and kind; quick to laugh and tease, attentive in his conversations. There is an open sort of bawdiness to his laughter with his friends that denotes a commonality beneath station; Mary recognizes the easy contact and smiles of William Compton and the Duke of Suffolk in her relationships with her own ladies. But Mary sees quickly that his attentiveness wanes when the conversation is not to his benefit; that though he may be quick to tease any other, he does not take to any jest made at his expense. His mouth turns down quickly when something displeases him; a true pout, childish and spoilt. The endearment of his pleasure, shared with open warmth when it becomes him, is a thin veneer over the stress he radiates in their few days at Berwick, awaiting their wedding; it boils dauntingly in the occasionally too-hard set of his jaw, the lock in his shoulders and base of his spine when his expectations are not met exactly.

More than anything else, Mary is simply _worried_ that he will be a hard man to please. She does not know if she can struggle to keep his attentions; it would not be a sincere effort - at the least, motivated by very little aside from the making of heirs, and the frigidity of such an arrangement strikes Mary cold. Even with love she and Francis had not managed it, in the wake of the attack on the castle and Mary’s recovery; they had not been able to set their history, _themselves_ , aside well enough. It was that, as well; the closer they drew to the wedding, the more afraid Mary was of herself; of her own _fear_ , of the prospect that she may panic, and have to _pretend_ . She would _have_ to pretend; she did not know what other option she may have - familiar as she’s always been with the idea of marrying a perfect stranger, Mary does not know how to be _honest_ with a man she doesn’t know, and certainly does not trust. She does not know how to be vulnerable, open with him; and she does not _want_ to tell him the truth. His reaction would be dangerous, and unpredictable; there is a dreadful, cold hole in Mary’s chest that knows he may decide to forsake her, if he finds out; and find his way to Anne.

Anne Boleyn - whom Mary had staged her meeting of, had cautioned and considered every detail of the reception of this woman into her life, so many years later. Mary had been _determined_ not to let the long-past intimidation she had felt for Anne control their relationship; nor what so many seemed to assume was Anne’s natural dominance as the King’s _true love_ . Mary was not envious of her, in that respect; but it was _important_ that her authority as Queen not be questioned, that her political influence and power in a country she now had personal, political and financial investment in for both herself _and_ her children were stable, and she be seen as invaluable. She had had a difficult enough time trying to gain the respect of the nobility in France - Mary and Francis had just barely found their footing in power before his death; but if Mary knew anything, it was that she would _not_ allow herself to be at the mercy of anyone but God and her own conscience, ever again. It was too dangerous, for herself and everyone she loved.

So there had been consideration; and when Anne had happened upon her in the silence of her rooms, Mary had allowed herself a breath of _nothing_ , allowed the other woman a moment to consider her new rival up close. It was important, after the dark, anxious frustration that came with knowing Anne had seen her first - it mattered that she make _sure_ Anne also see her up close, first; it mattered that Mary did not give into her fear.

But it was not _fear_ that had struck her when she’d finally looked at Anne Boleyn.

She was, of course, beautiful. It was not a surprise, and Mary had known her before - but it was nonetheless striking. Her expression gave nothing away; Mary had not expected it to, but she had also not expected the woman simply dressed, the grey-green flowerprint of her otherwise unadorned dress was accessorized only by a pearl necklace, its pendant a gold _‘B’_ with a teardrop pearl hung from it, providing a lovely backdrop to her juxtaposed complexion. It was much like the King’s, but _more_ \- her hair darker, eyes brighter and searching, endlessly, where his took languid, analytical pleasure. But so much more than her looks, Mary had come to an absolute, simple fact; Mary _liked_ Anne. She liked the passionate honesty of her frustration and impatience, the murmurs of her temper against the clear ring of her intelligence, all veneered by a cold, cutting prettiness that Mary found refreshingly abrasive.

“Mary?”

Kenna’s voice is soft, a gentle shake from the half-sleep Mary had managed to drift back into, mulling her predicaments and listening to the earliest servants move about the room. “Your Majesty, I have breakfast,” she adds, and a finger drifts warmly over Mary’s cheek, pressing her hair back behind her ear.

Reluctantly, Mary opens her eyes, and finds Kenna sitting on the edge of the bed, a mug of what smells like spiced wine warm in her hand.

“Good morning,” Kenna greets, a small, conspiratorial smile cutting the corner of her mouth. Involuntary, Mary returns the smile, shaking her head as she rolls onto her back and stretches. She presses her arms up above her head, arching her back and wincing against the momentary lock of her muscles, then sighing as she relaxes.

“I don’t think I slept,” Mary admits, pushing herself into a sitting position and taking the offered cup. She cradles it before herself, both hands curved to the warmth of it, and inhales the sharp sweetness gratefully, humming.

It is too early for such a thing, really; Greer would tell them _both_ off for it, but Kenna only grins wider at Mary’s appreciation. “I didn’t think so, did you even leave this room yesterday? You never sleep well after spending the day hunched at your desk,” Kenna gives, standing up and unceremoniously tugging Mary’s covers off. Mary whines, but shifts to drop her feet to the ground, getting up and starting for her small table, bearing a small bowl of pottage and plate of fruit and cheese. “Too much in your head,” Kenna adds, and Mary snorts, offering a single-shouldered shrug as she sits down.

“Entirely in my head,” she corrects, sipping at her wine and picking at the food.

“Are you thinking of the wedding?” Kenna asks, behind Mary now, beginning to comb her fingers through the sleep-tangles of Mary’s hair. Mary sighs, closing her eyes and leaning back into her friend’s ministrations. It was all terribly sped-up, a one-and-again immediate situation - Mary felt she had barely taken a breath since their departure from Edinburgh, travelling for days and then meeting the King, this diplomat and that, noble after noble and _Anne_ \- and the wedding would be a spectacle, rushed but ornate - a day of performance and little else, for Mary.

“Yes,” she gives, feels the rush of worries bubbling in the back of her mouth before she can think to stop it, “And of how I can please no one; the Archbishop of Glasgow is furious that taxes to the Church have been made, but taxing the Church is the only way to get the money to keep the Protestant rebels from ripping it to shreds, themselves; and the Archbishop of St. Andrews has become vehement in supporting Glasgow’s fury simply because he’s angry himself that I’ve decided to marry into England, instead of turning my attentions _back_ to France, though no one would have been happy had I decided to marry a French _noble_ instead of an English _King_ . Of course, neither of them _know_ that I have made such decisions at the behest of the Pope - and James continues to pout, as well; he’s the quickest to silence any mutterings from the nobles, but I worry about if I can rely on him when he believes I am doing the wrong thing. In fact, his _friend,_ the Reverend Knox has decided to attend the wedding; he’s one of the many collecting in the fields as we speak, did you know?”

Kenna’s fingertips drag the back of Mary’s neck, her free hand coming up to squeeze her shoulder. “No, I didn’t. How unpleasant,” she gives derisively, “But aside, you were worried about all those things a week ago,” she goes on, both hands moving to begin combing Mary’s hair; Mary opens her eyes only long enough to nab a few pieces of cheese, then gives over to Kenna again.

“Yes,” she agrees, “And I’m worried about them now.”

Kenna exhales a short, sharp burst of exasperation, her thumb pressing against the base of Mary’s neck. 

“How was it to meet the Lady Boleyn, yesterday?” She asks finally, and Mary smiles to herself when Kenna goes on, chastising, “I will ask rudely, outright, since you refuse to be forthcoming.”

“That _was_ rude,” Mary agrees cheerfully, Kenna groans, and Mary cannot help her laugh; she has to have her delights _somewhere_ , after all, and they come most integrally from teasing her friends. “It was -” Mary starts, breaking off as the dark of her eyelids is lit by the memory; the image of Anne burnt to the back of them, sitting before Mary in a final kind of simplicity. Anne had been intimidating; and _intimidated_ , undeniably so, a desperate air of determination threaded through her entire being. It was brave, Mary thought, to come on her own; and she clearly had not told the King of it beforehand - if she had, Mary expected she would not have met the woman at all. She wondered if Anne’s brother and sister had known of the meeting, or protested it; grimaces internally as she realizes, as she has over and over and over again all night, that she should have _asked_ the woman when she had the chance. Mary does not know when they’ll next be alone - she does not know why she so very much _wants_ to be alone with the woman again.

“Confusing,” Mary gives finally, the rhythm of the comb’s teeth twisting through her hair steady under Kenna’s hand. “I wanted her to know there would be no point to a rivalry; that I won’t _fight_ with her for his affections,” Mary takes a breath, feels heat crawling, suffocating, up her neck as she remembers; “I told her about when Francis was ill.”

It’s quiet; Kenna offers nothing but another shoulder squeeze, and Mary exhales slowly. She did not know what reaction she had expected from Anne, not really - but her quiet acceptance had certainly not been it. And that was how Mary had taken her question; _Have you ever been young?_ Not a comment on the tragedies of her life, not even her maturity - just an observation, genuine, unapologetically,  and _refreshingly_ dark. Mary was so _tired_ of pretending that she was okay - so tired of pretending at her power, her confidence - of pretending at the passage of her grief, having to act as though she’s not still trapped in mourning Francis every moment of the day. 

“I made her very uncomfortable,” Mary says, opening her eyes again, surprised when her vision does not blur.

“That seems only fair,” Kenna remarks, and then she’s coming around the table to face Mary, “Then again, I was only _ever_ uncomfortable when I was Henri’s mistress,” she admits, and Mary cringes, nodding and picking at the bread.

“It wasn’t my intention,” Mary says, shaking her head, “But we have no time for pleasantries or lies - it will never work, if we are not all honest with each other. Am I wrong for believing that?”

Kenna shakes her head, continuing about her chores; Mary’s dress for the day had been laid out the night before, and Kenna deftly picks over the open trunk of Mary’s jewelry. “Of course not. You’re right, as you usually are -” she breaks off, shooting Mary a wink as she lays a necklace over the breast of the dress, “But most are not as practical as you, Mary. Especially most women. I love you, and you are brilliant, but you have always been better with men than other women, Your Majesty,” Kenna explains, the title offered in a half-joke of deference.

Mary sighs.

“I suppose so,” she admits, pressing her palms to her eyes. She puts her fingers through her hair, groaning, and then ungracefully polishing off the food, reclaiming her mug of wine before moving to sit at her vanity. Mary catches a glance of herself in the mirror; still clearly half-asleep, mouth full, a jeweled drop of red at the corner of her mouth. She forces herself not to laugh; instead to swallow, _then_ laughs, burying it in her hand. “I see what you mean,” she adds, wiping her palm over her mouth.

“You may have to play the game, at least a little,” Kenna says, appearing behind her, and twists the dark river of Mary’s hair around her hand. “Two braids, twisted up?” She suggests, and within her grip Mary minutely shakes her head.

“One, thick,” she says, bringing a hand up to lay two fingers against her forehead, showing Kenna the width, “All the way,” she adds, tracing back over her head. “The King likes it when I wear it down, I can tell - and I’d prefer to appear younger, more girlish, for the time being,” Mary explains. Kenna nods, letting Mary’s hair slip through her fingers as she reassesses. “How do I play if I don’t know the game?” Mary asks, and Kenna hums idly.

“You do know. It’s civility with dignity; she must defer to you, you must insist on it. But it also must be respectful of her - _position_ ,” Kenna says, and Mary’s not _sure_ of what she wants from Anne; is too busy thinking of the near-constant smirk of Anne’s mouth, pink and pretty, to figure it out - but she knows that what Kenna’s describing is _not_ it.

“I don’t think I want civility,” Mary says, earns a single flick of sunset-dark eyes in the beaten silver mirror - and she’s not sure how to _explain_ it, exactly. She wants Anne’s respect, yes; she even wants her admiration - but above both those things, Mary simply wants her _attention_ . Moreso, maybe, than the King’s; she wants Henry’s approval; his devotion, in the sense of becoming a comfortable habit to him, reliable and steady and _safe_ as his wife. But Anne - Mary feels much more _desperate_ about what she wants from Anne, obsessive of what the woman may be thinking now, of what she had thought of Mary all yesterday.

“D’you remember, when the English proposal first came - and we were speaking of preferences?”

Kenna’s question is like a burst of light behind Mary’s eyes; images flash quickly before her, tidbits of conversation in a courtyard. She feels herself blush as much as she sees the reflection, hot and spreading in her cheeks.

“ _Kenna_ ,” Mary gives, not a scold, exactly - she’s not _chastising_ her, but Mary feels so suddenly, totally and entirely _humiliated_ that she doesn’t know what else to say. “I don’t want - _her_ ,” Mary says, stuttering and stumbling over the declaration. She _doesn’t_ want Anne as she’s wanted men - it’s not that, not what Kenna’s described for Mary before, trying to explain under the haze of far too much wine and barely enough sleep. It’s not about _sex_ , it’s just… about Anne.

“All right,” Kenna agrees, nodding at her, and Mary wants to say more - wants to protest; or maybe _ask_ , ask for details, ask _again_ what it was like to be with a woman - what Kenna is _getting_ at, exactly - but Greer and Lola arrive, and Mary lets the conversation fall away in the wake of her ladies readying her for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, im back. im back for REAL. buckle the fuck up. also follow me on instagram for updates & more fun things:  
> https://www.instagram.com/ajar.ofgoodthings/


	4. calix meus inebrians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But now, he can see - she is trying to persuade him.
> 
> It is not blatant, nor vulgar; Henry does not even think it is dishonest. She considers him a beat longer and then half-smiles, presses her tongue between her lips and shakes her head. It’s an endearment; he watches her because he cannot help it.
> 
> Mary rises, picking up their cups and crossing to pour them both again. She pauses with her back to him, inspecting the delicately sugared marzipan; a beautiful wreath of thistles and roses in their honour.
> 
> Henry does her the respect of observing; the loose fall of her robe to her hips, calves silhouetted by the sheer white of her shift, feet bare on the stone floor.
> 
> His anger, always so quick to rise and near as quick to bury itself, shifts; the uncomfortable, anxious tension in his shoulders presses hot into his chest, pooling tight in his abdomen. He sits up, palming himself as he watches her fingertips trail the line of her jaw as she moves her hair back, pressing a broken petal of sugar to her tongue.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**CALIX MEUS INEBRIANS - CHAPTER 4**

**JUNE, 1527**

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

**HENRY VIII, KING OF ENGLAND**

_ BERWICK CASTLE _

 

Henry is  _ furious _ .

Barrelling through the castle, he is blind and deaf to all but his end-goal; servants and nobles alike drop deep bows as he passes and he does not acknowledge them, nor the familiar fear on their faces at the sight of his rage - he does not care what they think.

He does not care about anything but Anne.

He does not wait for his announcement when he reaches her rooms; bangs the door on the way in, finds Anne, seated in the window with a book open in her lap.

She doesn’t flinch or jump; for all her reaction, he might think himself a ghost to her. Slowly, she marks her page and lifts her head - a smile,  _ his _ smile, curving infuriatingly in her mouth as she rises to curtsey.

She is, as always, lovely. The dark edge of her eyes glitters as her gaze drops, eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks, graceful in the easy bend of her body in a dress of fine red silk - a gift of his, in fact.

“Your Majesty,”

“You lied to me,” he says, hard and flat and he  _ hears _ his own petulance, grits his teeth against it. Anne’s eyes widen, and she rises.

“When?”   
  
“You went to see Queen Mary!” Henry accuses, angered impossibly more by the prospect of her pretending with him.

“Yes,” she says, simple and flat. “When did I lie about that?” She asks, and Henry takes a breath, shaking his head and stepping away from her.

“You did not tell me. You did not  _ ask _ me,” he gives, locking his fingers behind his back as he breaks into pacing, half-involuntary, covering the small space from the door to the small table. “Did you  _ intend _ to tell me yourself?”

Henry does not know what to say; he feels - panicked, angry. Embarrassed; a hot, burning,  _ screaming _ sort of feeling in his shoulders and chest and face. This is not how he meant this to go; he never imagined that they may meet  _ without _ his presence - they had no reason to create a true co-existence. Anne was not to be employed at court; she would have a household of her own, when all was said and done.

He had not meant for Anne to have to be subject to the cruelty of a young, jealous woman’s scorn. Mary had crossed a line.

“Of course,” Anne says softly, soothing, “But had I told you before, you would not have allowed it.”

“No!” Henry snaps, pivoting on his heel to face her again. “I would not have!” He would have protected her; he would have had a word with his soon-to-be-wife and created the boundary, made clear his intentions as a husband without a heart to give away. “It’s absurd, Anne, absurd and unnecessary and -” he breaks off, gesturing in a wide, jerking shrug of furious defeat. He can undo none of these things; he cannot go back and agree to Anne staying in London, or even going to Hever - he cannot erase the pain she’s been caused already, the pain he’ll keep causing, he cannot take back the mistake and insult he’s brokered the beginning of his marriage upon.

“And then you would be only more angry now, because I would have gone regardless.”

He stares blankly at her for a beat; considers her words and the open honesty of her expression.

She means it; she  _ would _ have. She  _ wanted _ to meet the woman.

“Anne, why?”

No one, ever, will contest Henry’s devotion to the woman before him; they are tied irrevocably together - but Henry  _ knows _ his new wife is a beautiful woman; beautiful, and intelligent, and a formidable adversary - even to a woman such as Anne, who has so few.

He doesn’t understand Anne’s willingness to subject herself to the woman’s direct presence - to be so personal with such a rival, all her resentments personified. Henry can barely stand to breathe the same air as Thomas Wyatt, the once so foolishly after Anne’s love - how could she  _ seek _ such torture?

“Henry, I cannot pretend this is not happening. It would be far worse,” she gives, taut and bare. He hears it; the edge of her pain and the edge of her anger - the threat of her temper rising in the wake of his own. He wants to exhale against it; wants  _ her _ to exhale against it. One of them has to take a breath.

The weight of it all is sudden, overwhelming. He is standing six paces from the love of his life, his single, absolute soulmate, but they could be standing on separate sides of the sea for all the good it does them. He can feel it; the breaking of them, the cracking of pressure on glass, fissuring to fracture the bursts of light still trying to bleed through it.

He wants to get angry; he wants to blame someone for it - wants to blame  _ her _ for it; doesn’t know how to take the blame himself. It is suffocating, hollow and hurting like a knife, and he does not know what to say to her.

Henry would give it all up; his crown, his life, his  _ name _ , if he could reverse this. If he could only have Anne and nothing more; it’s a deal he would make with less hesitation than a heartbeat.

“This is not what I promised you.”

He offers it with naked honesty; feels the heat on his face and the burn of tears. He failed her; it’s the truth, and the only thing he can do for her now is admit it. “You should not have to endure this.”

Anne’s face flickers, brow knitting and eyes narrowing and then she’s crossing to him, and Henry bristles; he wants to shove her away, reject an affection he no longer deserves from her - he wants to get her closer to him, kiss the pink from her mouth; he wants to protect her from all the hurts he doesn’t know how to stop.

Her hands come up to hover over his chest, then rest against his shoulders; his skin prickles beneath the weight of her palms and Henry takes her by the waist like he’s taking a lifeline, pulling her a step closer. His joints feel hot and tight; the lock of his knuckles is painful, taut as a bow, holding back how  _ hard _ he wants to hold her. Anne considers him; her eyes search his face, head tilting - genuine, analyzing him openly and without apology.

It’s comforting, and familiar; her bare read of him. He doesn’t need to try to articulate himself, he doesn’t need to work words that don’t exist to convey something he  _ can’t _ communicate. She can see it; she can  _ feel _ it - she knows him, and in this moment he does not know how to explain himself to her, the burn in his body and heat behind his eyes.

“No,” she says finally, agreeing, shaking her head. “I shouldn’t.”

It’s silent. He considers the hard, blank edge to her eyes; she’s raging, somewhere on the inside - and she’s not showing it to him.

He has returned to the edges of walls he’d once destroyed with confidence, and he cannot apologize to her for it, because that would make it worse.

“But I will,” she says, three words severing the lines from defeat to confession to promise.

The sound of it breaks him, and he cannot let her see it; she does not deserve to know the endless, hollowed void of his pain over this - so he presses into her, presses his mouth to hers, and presses them both to the bed.

When he wakes for his wedding in the morning, Anne does not kiss him goodbye.

 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**LADY ANNE BOLEYN**

_ BERWICK CASTLE _

 

Anne is  _ miserable _ .

She’s miserable, and she’s miserable about it - she is  _ not _ this woman. Intemperate, yes; hot-headed, even; she knows this about herself, but she  _ also _ knows she’s not a woman to pout, to wallow uselessly in her depression and jealousy.

Nor is she one to ever  _ drink _ so much.

“You’ll be so ill by morning, Annie. Please eat something.”

Her siblings, Mary and George had come to her rooms after the feast had begun, once they could slip away without being noticed; now they're here, Anne wishes they would leave. Her sister Mary’s appeal is soft and genuine - and  _ grates _ on Anne’s nerves. It is not pity - her sister would not disrespect her so - but it is almost dangerously close; soft, honey-brown eyes are kind and comforting.

And it makes Anne  _ furious _ .

She doesn’t  _ want _ to be comforted - not for her grief over another woman’s husband, not for her humiliatingly public defeat. Mary swims before her; her smile the shade of a strawberry, long red-blonde hair loose, eyes a warm oak - so dazzlingly pretty it makes Anne nauseous.

Anne closes her eyes on it, sulking low into the heavy, warm enclave of her chair.

She cannot even  _ tell _ him what it is to feel this - to  _ lose _ like this, to lose  _ him _ . Oh, she’s railed and raved at him, without mercy or self-preservation - but not with full honesty. She’s hidden the reality of it from him; the absolute, total,  _ ugly _ misery that would loosen the tie of them, the only security Anne still has in the situation.  _ She _ was still in control; she was making her own decisions about where they stood, and his attraction to her anger only drove her urge to punish him for the palace of broken stone and pain they had built themselves. He deserved her secrecy and the guilt; he deserved to carry the weight of them, for a while - she couldn’t anymore.

It was breaking her.

“Remember your duty, Anne. The King may call in the morning.”

Anne stiffens, hesitates long enough only to be sure she will not falter over her words, and then opens her eyes, hard on George.

“If the King calls, I will refuse him. I have no duty to him; he has a wife.”

Her brother looks at her, coal-black eyes narrowed. His lips purse, and he tilts his head away, as though stretching a cramp from his neck.

“You are a courtier as we all are, Anne. You remain at the King’s beck and call, as do the rest of us. It is inescapable,” he crosses to her as she speaks and punctuates his point by cruelly snatching her cup from her half-numb fingers. Anne hisses.

“George, you do not understand -”

“I do not,” he cuts, shaking his head. He’s drunk, too; she can see it in his face, cheeks red and dark curls wet with sweat at his temples. He drains the last of her cup, so wine is staining his chin when he’s speaking again. “But I know this, Anne - you gain nothing by sulking.”

“Do you think I don’t know that myself?!” She shouts, hand hitting the arm of her chair  _ hard _ . Her anger surprises her - it always does, the snap of her temper like doubting a candle, any light or flame within her choked from life by black. Anne leverages her hand on the chair and presses forward,  _ launching _ at him - she stops herself, barely, before she can dig claws into his face, instead side-stepping him and driving her nails into her palms.

The bite of her skin is sharp; Anne just wants to displace the pain - she just wants to feel it somewhere  _ else _ , someway else than the gnawing ache in her chest, excruciatingly hollow where her heartbeat once was. It’s an endless cycle of self-pity, anger at Henry, jealousy, anger at  _ herself _ , the monstrous roar of suppressed ambition and, always,  _ want, want, want _ . Wanting Henry - wanting his ring as well as his love; wanting the throne beside him, wanting the  _ future _ \- wanting  _ any _ future, besides the one she’s so artfully collapsed upon herself. Anne wants to back up - reverse her way to a few decisions ago. There are too many choices she can’t take back and words she can’t unsay keeping her shackled to this existence; she is a disgrace, dishonoured; to spend the rest of her life being humiliated, expected to apologize at every moment and submit to her  _ better _ .

The worst part is that Anne  _ knows _ it - just as she had with Katherine, Anne knows that Mary, the little Queen of Scots, absolutely  _ is _ Anne’s better. Her better by birth and right - and she would never say it to him, never clarify the fact, but Mary had held powers Henry could only dream of, for longer than he had ever dared to dream of it. Anne must  _ submit _ to this girl, who she couldn’t even claim wasn’t as intelligent, as charming, as beautiful - the Queen matched her for each, Anne knew. She had known it for a long time; Catherine had told her as much - but it was something else entirely to be presented with the physical, tangible representation of her downfall; another thing still to be so kindly treated by her; to, somehow, seem to have her respect.

It would be so much  _ easier _ if the Queen hated Anne - if she was childish and churlish and the young, stupid girl Henry had wanted originally.

“I should go to France.”

The idea occurs to her aloud; Anne turns back around as she says it, to George’s slightly wary half-step back and her sister still eyeing her with those warm, kind eyes from her seat.

“What?”

“I should write to the Queen - to the Queen Mother, to Catherine; she is Regent, now, she may have room in her household - I could go to France; I could start over,” the plan forms itself as the words do; spontaneous and bright in the sudden option of relief - Anne can  _ leave _ . She can go to France, to be in Catherine’s service once again - she can flirt with French noblemen and make a marriage for herself where Henry is nothing but a shadowed figure on the other side of the sea, married off to a woman not her.

“Anne -” George starts, quiet, warning. “I don’t think -”

“I can’t stay here!” Anne cries, feels the well of sudden, hot tears onto her cheeks. The anguish comes as quickly as the relief had; grey smoke filtering itself into all the empty spots between her bones, all the hollow places once burning bright with Henry’s devotion. “I cannot  _ feel _ this for the rest of my life, George. I cannot. I cannot follow around in her  _ shadow _ , and his adoration of it,” she’s shaking her head, stumbling a step back, away from him, away from them both - away from it  _ all _ , and her legs hit the bed and she falls backwards onto it, something in the center of her breaking. She can’t stay upright - she can’t breathe or  _ think _ ; Anne can only curl in on herself, on the oozing, open wounds stabbed into her stomach and  _ sob _ .

Anne can hear it, distantly - the loud, guttural  _ moaning _ ; it doesn’t feel like it’s coming from her body - she feels too full of nothing to think it possibly  _ could _ be. She bows over herself, sobbing grief into the bed as she slides off it, to her knees on the ground. George is saying something - Anne is clinging to the blankets, shoving them into her mouth in an effort to deaden her body’s cries.

A strong arm comes around the front of her shoulders, pulling her back from the bed; in the support, Anne stops trying to hold herself up, letting her weight drop against her brother’s body. She turns her head into his chest, her hand coming up to claw at the back of his shoulder, and he holds her so tight she thinks he’s worried she might break; and she thinks she might, if not for him, if not for her sister’s gentle touch at her cheekbone, her temple, pulling her hair back from being caught in tears and her mouth.

So Anne cries. She cries, and cries; and buries more inhuman sounds against George, muffling the grief she has no right to in the complicated, unconditional love of her siblings.

Finally, she slows down; she remembers how to breathe in and is  _ exhausted _ , collapsed in George’s embrace, snotty and soaked with sweat.

“I don’t know about France,” Mary starts eventually, once she’s helped Anne wipe her face and offered her a few watered-down sips of wine. “But my husband and I will be riding ahead of the party, on our own, to Hever,” she explains, “You might come with us. We’ll stay for the last of the summer, with my children, then travel to London for the coronation. I’m sure it would not be much, to convince William to leave court and spend Christmastide at Aldenham with the children, and you.”

It’s a genuine, comforting offer. Anne has never been much one for the quiet luxuries of the countryside; she is too easily bored, and though she loves her niece and nephew as her sister’s children, but they are too young, as far as she’s concerned, to be much  _ fun _ . Baby Harry is only one; and though they do not speak of the King as his father aloud, it is a silently acknowledged fact by the court - Anne does not know if she could stand the extra jealousy, green and harsh, bubbling up like poison every time she looks at her nephew’s copper curls.

In the same breath; Cat is three, an allegedly precocious little girl with Anne’s own dark hair and bright eyes, a sharper complexion than the fair honey-gold-red of her little brother, a perfect mix of their parents. Cat is a  _ Boleyn _ \- and Anne is happy, to see her sister reunited in peace with her husband, a partnership Mary had once had so much naive hope for. She rather likes her brother-in-law’s dry, practical approach to life at court - and in terms of the offer, Anne needs somewhere safe to lick her wounds; nurse her pride, sinful as it may be.

“Yes,” she gives, nodding and allowing her siblings to help her up. “With the King’s permission,” she clarifies; hears the bitter note to her own voice and closes her eyes against it, frustrated by how  _ honest _ she is being.

“Of course,” Mary gives, almost dismissive, and offers her hands for balance as George begins to help Anne undress.

 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**HENRY VIII, KING OF ENGLAND**

_ BERWICK CASTLE _

 

It’s late and dark, and the embers are near dead in the fire by the time Henry is left alone with his new wife.

She is frustratingly beautiful. He can hardly bear to tear his eyes from her lips and finds himself going only so far as her collarbone, the alabaster line of her neck. He knows she knows he is looking; finds the play of it in the dip of her dimples, eyes on the table when his lift again. The domestic air of the comfortable room is amplified warmly by her hair down and loose, hanging in open curls, and the embroidered collar of her shift falling half-open.

She rolls her dice, wins the game, and smiles.

It’s all so rehearsed, so  _ sugary  _ \- Henry does not  _ trust _ it, and he is growing shortly tired of the veneer. He’s not an easy man to trick; his entire life is populated by those wishing to deceive him, and bend him to their will - he will not stand for  _ lies _ from this girl. He does not want whatever faux face, whatever impersonal aspect of herself she’s offering him, a gargoyle constructed to what she thinks will suit him best. He wants the  _ truth _ . He is not a man like to fall for a wolf in sheep’s clothing; he would much prefer the wolf.

Especially when he  _ knows _ that, barely beyond him, the creature is there; lurking just out of his sight, snarling in the shadows. This Queen a she-wolf on a throne, Henry’s sure; he has already made the mistake of underestimating her once, and he is no fool.

“I know you met the Mistress Boleyn,” he says shortly, simply, as gold coins clatter off the table and into her open palm.

Her eyebrows raise; her smiles drops. She does not look back up at him for a beat; when she does, her head is just barely tilted to the left and she has enough of a curve to her mouth to show her teeth. It’s a far  _ sharper _ -edged thing than submission, and Henry feels hot and red on the edges at the razored threat of her mouth.

“I thought you may,” she says, and he’s not sure if it’s an insult, if it’s meant for Anne, if it means anything at all. He exhales, and has to  _ think _ to keep the growl from his chest.

“You did not think to seek my permission?” He asks slowly, purposefully. Mary straightens, sitting back in her chair and looking at him.

“I sought to employ her as a lady-in-waiting, my Lord. I was under the impression that she is a favourite of yours.”

Henry is frozen; he deadlocks inside, grinding his teeth. Mary’s tone accuses nothing, and betrays less. She is not angry; but she is also not telling him the truth - though she must know that he already  _ knows _ that. If Henry is sure of anything about Mary, it’s that she’s no fool, either.

“She told me she could not accept. I thought it unfortunate; I  _ do _ see why you keep so much of her company,” and she’s  _ serious _ , he thinks, he’s nearly sure. Mary is not an easy woman to read; but Henry knows himself to be a hound-on-scent when it comes to insults and Anne.

“You  _ should _ have sought my permission,” he repeats, harder.

Mary’s smile, bland and bright, vanishes. At once, Henry feels both too hot and too cold; he is tense, fingers cutting on the arms of his chair.

Dark eyes bore into his, direct, refusing to look away.

“Why?”

Henry nearly laughs; the question is ridiculous - and yet it is  _ not _ , and he knows it.

“Because she is - because I am the King,” he answers, jumbled, the confession of Anne a constant temptation in his mouth, the latter an absolute truth.

“And I am the Queen.”

The edges of the chair cut into Henry’s palms; he feels stuck, trapped somewhere between his anger and shocked admiration at her indignance.

Except, it’s  _ not _ indignance. It’s power. Mary tilts her head, waiting, mouth set like a challenge, inviting him to contend her.

_Inviting_ him.

Henry exhales through his nose; he looks away from her, grabbing his cup and drinking deep. He sinks back in his chair, draining it, and setting it hard to the table.

Mary, sitting straight-backed, has not yet looked away from him.

The woman before him is an argument in and of herself; a walking conflict, a girl-King. Born to the sex of submission but expected to wear the crown of absolute power; the weight of a country on the slight shoulders of a girl, fatherless - now, a woman; now an orphan; now a widow.

Now his wife.

The wedding was a blur of ceremony and performance; Henry gave his words by rote and pretended he was not aching in Anne’s absence. He had flirted well with his wife at dinner, made an excellent toast and show of dancing with her before the court - and for her part, Mary had done well. She was very convincing in her sweetness, in the allure of her own contrasts and frictions; on the whole, Henry thought they had both conducted themselves beautifully, and Mary had persuaded much of the court to her side.

But now, he can see - she is trying to persuade  _ him _ .

It is not blatant, nor vulgar; Henry does not even think it is dishonest. She considers him a beat longer and then half-smiles, presses her tongue between her lips and shakes her head. It’s an endearment; he watches her because he cannot help it.

Mary rises, picking up their cups and crossing to pour them both again. She pauses with her back to him, inspecting the delicately sugared marzipan; a beautiful wreath of thistles and roses in their honour.

Henry does her the respect of observing; the loose fall of her robe to her hips, calves silhouetted by the sheer white of her shift, feet bare on the stone floor.

His anger, always so quick to rise and near as quick to bury itself, shifts; the uncomfortable, anxious tension in his shoulders presses hot into his chest, pooling tight in his abdomen. He sits up, palming himself as he watches her fingertips trail the line of her jaw as she moves her hair back, pressing a broken petal of sugar to her tongue.

He is angry at her; he does not trust her. He is heartbroken and beaten, eroded under his guilt and the weight of loving, a burn and a shatter he feels in his whole body. He is determined; to complete what he set out to do, to make this marriage work, to build a unified family and country with Mary. The inescapable fact is that wherever,  _ whoever _ they have been before, they are tied together, now; forever. She  _ is _ the Queen; she is  _ his _ Queen, and he is her husband before he is her King.

It’s the first time since his father’s death that Henry has known himself to be  _ anything _ , before being King - it’s the first time he’s known someone to  _ look _ at him as such; to look past the blinding gold about his brow and see a man beneath it - but she,  _ Mary _ , is impervious to the weight of his position; she is immune to his divinity. From the first moment she saw him, Henry had felt that she truly  _ had _ seen him - in a way so distant and unfamiliar it had struck him cold, felt wrong and heavy in his chest.

Katherine had considered herself her equal - his  _ better _ , he often thought, forever believing she was God’s favourite, as a daughter of the Hapsburgs and Spain. Her confidence had been attractive when they were young; her unshakeable self-belief, an arrogant sort of nerve and poise that delighted him, brash and reckless, in his adolescence. He had not seen, then, that it was the sin of Pride; instead, he had believed himself in love with her, fated to be her hero, her Sir Loyal Heart, to excuse his own sin of Lust for his brother’s wife. Even still; arrogance and recklessness and sin aside, Henry understood now that Katherine had never looked at him as a man, just as he had never seen her simply as a woman. She was a Princess and a prize; a bloodline to breed into his sons. To her, Henry was his crown; it was his power, and so her protection - and that was how he thought it was all meant to be, between man and wife. He would be her champion and she would be his lady, and they would never know each other.

And then,  _ Anne _ . Anne had changed so many things, for Henry; Anne had changed  _ everything _ . She had given him no allowance, no special privilege, for the weight of the gold on his head - it was not what she  _ cared _ about, not in comparison to the way she valued herself, her life; her own opinions and beliefs, her ambitions and dreams. King or no, he was nothing next to her integrity; and with her he had found a world of honesty. Faithful, determined, difficult,  _ tremendous _ honesty - and upon coming to know it, Henry had fallen in love with the truth. He had fallen in love with Anne, who did not apologize to him for who she was, for how she felt or thought, for the inescapable influences of those around her or the decisions she made for the sake of no one but herself. When he stood before Anne, Henry stood as a soul stripped bare.

Still; she could never understand what it was to be royalty. Even had they succeeded; even had Henry managed his every wish and made Anne his wife, made her his  _ Queen _ , she would never understand what it was to be born royal. She was still bright-eyed and dazzled by the trappings of it; the grandiose luxury Henry’s mother had taught him to wield with the right of gold, silver and sun in his veins. Henry’s father spent his entire life edging by death, the nick of the scythe forever leaking rose-red Tudor blood from his neck - and that first blow, so many years ago, had been struck for no reason other than that blood, the pump of it in his body and the rush of it in his ears. Henry VII had pulled his crown from the crimson-soaked dirt of Bosworth and Elizabeth of York, with Edward IV’s gold, silver and sun in her veins, had cleansed the stains from his hands - but they were never safe. Henry’s father’s reign had seen peacetime; but he had gone to his grave forever fearful of pretenders, of faceless boys lurking in the shadows. Henry’s birth itself was a precaution, a safeguard; the Spare to Arthur’s Heir - a provision to their family’s power.

Mary understood that. Mary  _ understands _ that; understands fear as a birthright as inescapably as power, understands the absolute  _ necessity _ of performance, the mummery of royalty. He knows it, because she has been putting on a show since the moment she arrived; except for now.

Mary turns to him, and for the first time, she  _ looks _ at him. Oh, she’s been studying him every moment they’ve had together - but he has not seen her  _ look _ at him yet, the full length of him, has not seen the blatant pass of heated consideration flush her face - and now, she is looking at him as a woman looks at a man. She is looking at him level; she is looking at him as her husband - and Henry finds that he is  _ enraptured _ by it.

It matters to him; the absolute simplicity of his position in her life. It matters to him to be a man by her; to do his duty to her as her strength, her protection. Anne is his love, the Keeper of his soul; Mary is to be his partner, the mother of his children.

Clearly, she is not angry at his solace in another woman; or at the least, she knows her own duty by him. He respects that; he respects  _ her _ .

She crosses back to him, both cups in hand, and when she moves to set his down he reaches for her wrist.

It’s purposeful; two fingers span up the back of her arm, his thumb, curves around her wrist, mirrored by his index and little finger.

It’s a gentle grip, but she pauses, fingers going slack on the cup to let him pull her hand from it. He turns her wrist so her palm is prone to him, and bends his head to press his lips to the tips of her fingers.

Just barely, Mary jumps; he can feel the jump in her wrist against the pads of his fingers. He holds her loosely, so she can pull away, and when she doesn’t, he kisses the inside of her palm, then moves to her wrist, light against the delicate green-blue hummingbird  _ thrum _ under thin skin.

She’s breathing harder; he can hear the short jump on her inhale, and looks up at her without moving back.

_ Want _ .

Her eyes are a little wide, pupils blown dark and endless. The quick rise and fall of her chest rushes in the narrow part to her lips, seeming a softer pink to the burn of red at her jaw, rising to her cheeks. Mary is  _ mesmerizing _ ; Henry is entranced, losing himself quickly to the strike of excruciating  _ desire _ that’s been rioting in the well-hidden restraints of his ribcage since the moment he lifted Mary back to her horse. His free hand flexes with the memory of it; the perfectly curved press of her waist against his palm; the definition he could not help but feel, the lean-muscled arch from her back to her ass.

In his grip, Mary’s hand tenses; a jerk in her wrist, the jump of her fingers. Henry loosens his hold, so his fingers only hover against her skin. Mary does not pull away.

He can’t read her, past the want on her face - and he is assuaged to see the proof of it so plainly, etched into her features as clearly as words aloud - but he is also driven; stirred by the clear reinforcement of his belief that she  _ did _ desire him; that it wouldn’t be a simple matter of marriage and duty. Henry would ensure she took pleasure in him; in being  _ fucked _ by him.

But there’s more; something else, confused behind the wet of her mouth, the panting and the pink in her cheeks - and he can’t guess at it. He doesn’t know her truths, yet, and she does not know his.

Mary turns her hand over then, palm against his cheek, fingertips to the corner of his jaw. He lets the gesture take him; stands, following the delicate pull of her fingers until there’s hardly a distance between them.

He releases her hand completely, brackets his hands over her waist and feels the flood of stiff heat spread taut, low in his body. She is tiny in his grip, shifting pliably, automatically, to the directed press of his thumbs. Her hand moves, flat to the back of his neck and her nails scrape shivers into his spine as she catches her fingers in his hair.

Henry inhales; she’s lavender, earth, and the salt-spray that permeates everything here.

Her eyes flick over his face; Mary breathes out.

He kisses her.

She is flush against him, her hips tilted forward into his, one arm draping over his shoulder. It’s easy,  _ instinct _ , to pick her up; turn, pressing her back so coins clatter off the table to the floor.

He’s too caught up in  _ kissing _ her to think past their dice and gold - until there is a louder crash, and they are both breaking away in time to watch wine pool across the floor, the cup rolling sideways through the tide.

Mary starts to laugh, muttering something like an  _ oh, no _ and she’s moving to get up, and Henry presses his mouth to her jaw.

“Stay here,” he gives, open-mouthed and hot behind her ear. He catches the shell of her ear in his teeth, smirking at the way she jumps, how her body presses back into his. “We’ve barely started,” he goes on, and then Mary’s turning her head to catch his lips - with hers, with her teeth, with her legs spread to let him closer. 

Her teeth drag against his bottom lip; his tongue presses to the seam of hers. Her ankles lock together against the backs of his knees; her thighs are tense, hot against his hips, and as she kisses him he can feel the tremble shivering through her body, most noticeable in the barely-there shake of her fingers on his jaw.

It’s been a long time for her, he knows; and was probably never done very well. She’s lonely. She’s  _ been _ lonely.

He pulls her to him; bends enough to rock his hips forward, the hard length of him trapped to the heat of her as he picks her up. Her arms lock around his shoulders and her back arches in the hard curve of his arm; there’s a pulse in the joint of her hips, a hardly noticeable tense-and-give, rocking herself into him.

It is an almost too-easy thing for Henry to give over to it, to Mary; it should be a betrayal, it should be  _ difficult _ to be with a woman is not Anne.

But Mary is his  _ wife _ \- truly and lawfully, he knows it as well as she does, as all of Europe does; Henry will not have another chance. And so it must be God-given; a blessing, to want her so readily, to feel animal and burning and  _ need _ with her breath in his ear as her back hits the bed.

He pulls back to free himself of his robe; and, in a glance at the flush of her chest, legs splayed for him - decides to toss his shirt as well, leaving him entirely naked before her.

He watches her look at him even as he drops over her again. Her hand comes around his neck, splaying across his chest and down. Her palm drags slow and definitive over the planes of his body; she is  _ exploring _ , only almost tentative, mapping the lines of his torso, his back. Henry shivers.

He busies himself, pressing his mouth to the column of her neck while his hands move back to her hips, over her ass - he grabs her thighs; not hard, just enough to  _ mean _ it, and rides her shift up in the catch of his wrist.

_ “Mary,”  _ he breathes, the syllable muffled half-involuntary to the hollow of her throat, and cuts his teeth against her collarbone when her nails drag into his hair again.

Her other hand curls fingers against his hip; almost hesitant, and then her knuckles drift lower. She uses her grip in his hair to pull his mouth back to hers, and then fingers close around him.

She knows what she wants; young and confident in her beauty, her authority. He rocks forward into her hand, spanning his own up to his new favourite discovery of her - her  _ ass _ .

“Take it off,” Mary mutters, pitched and whimpering against Henry’s mouth. She drops her hand from his neck to pull at the shoulder of her robe. “All of it.”

He lifts, hand back to her hip to pull her up with him, and she shrugs the robe away. Henry pulls her shift up over her head, leaving them bare together.

For a Queen, Mary has lived a hard life.

She is not marred by any means - to the contrary, Henry feels a rush of almost irresistible desperation at her nudity; she is lightly muscled, her biceps bearing slight definition, her thighs and legs strong and thick. The strong lines don’t take at all from the definitive, inexorable femininity of her; all curves and soft skin, waist warm and pliable in Henry’s grip. Still; she is scarred - here and there, raised pink scarring and older, faded white marks that she cannot hide, stripped bare before him and the candles. Henry had known that the woman before him had spent much of her life running for it; she’s an accomplished rider, a swordsman herself, and there’s an odd, confused,  _ driven _ sort of twinge in him at the idea of blades slashing her skin, picturing the altercations that had earned her such wounds.

He is too conscientious a gentleman to stare, however - he’s known enough women intimately to know better than to highlight it, or ask her about it now - or anytime soon, probably. And he’s distracted, anyway; preoccupied with the naked, wanting young Queen before him, and the enchantingly impatient wriggle that works through her body with his stillness.

Mary leans forward, her knees still propped to either side of his waist, and uses the leverage to press up - enough to curve her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down to her.

She kisses him slowly. Her hand turns to drag nails light over the nape of his neck; her other hand grips solidly on his shoulder, down to his bicep - she drops to flat her palm against his chest, and Henry leans into her as it spans to the wing of his shoulderblade. She’s trying to touch him everywhere, all at once, the hard length of him pressed against her belly between the flush of their bodies.

Henry knows sex.

He had not known a woman until he was King - still, before he was married; he had been sure not to make a fool of himself his wedding night, as he once believed Arthur had done. The tight grip of his father and grandmother had kept him under close watch until his father had died - but Henry had become an educated man, since.

An educated lover.

Henry had discovered himself to be a man who sought his pleasure in the exhausted, satisfied gratitude of his lovers. He loved to make women come apart around him; and when he could, to push them so far gone that they were without decorum or care; sometimes near without consciousness. As he had aged, Henry had come to take particular pride in his ability to quickly teach himself a woman’s preferences and sensitive places; through the turn of her head, the tilt of her hips, the pitch of her voice.

Anne had long been his obsession; she still was, but was now also _his,_ whatever broken pieces may be between them. She was his to love, and touch - to want, shamelessly, to desire and have completely.

She had been a virgin, with him; he had never truly had any doubt, but had known the truth of it with the hurt, the first time; even with the attentions of his fingers and mouth before he had taken her maidenhead. It had not lasted long; she was as passionate in his bed as everywhere else - but even her soreness afterwards had been proof of her virginity.

Of course, it had not been their first time  _ together _ , entirely - Henry already knew Anne’s body, and she his. The desire to learn - their shared competition, a mutual drive, a  _ compulsion _ to be the best, had always carried into their lovemaking. Anne is an animal he will never tame, and does not want to.

Mary, the Queen of Scots, his new little wife, is another creature entirely.

She’s quietly confident, graceful, elegant - her air of French manners with the easy, forever-amused quality he knows of all Scottish nobility. On the Queen, the always-present smirk is a challenge, an invitation; a desirous curve to a red mouth.

Mary is no virgin.

She and her husband had been young - but married, and in love. Henry knew what he had been like as a young man; he may not have been able to act on it, but he was sure the young couple had learned  _ some _ things together - and, clearly, Mary knows just enough to know she wants  _ more _ .

Henry spans his hands from her hips, down her thighs, to catch under her knees and pull her towards him - it’s a quick, playful motion, but Henry feels Mary  _ freeze _ .

Her body locks completely, mouth stilling against his, her hands halting to hover against his skin. Henry lets out a breath, tilting his head to turn away from the paralyzed kiss; slowly, he releases his grip, waiting until he’s sure she has the balance of her own weight before moving his hands, instead, to span flat in the middle of her back.

She’s afraid, he thinks. He can’t be  _ sure _ \- and she’s not saying anything, just breathing hard and shallow and far too fast, her hands still hovering barely above his body, almost touching him but  _ not _ . Henry mimics her; lightly drifts his lips to her jaw, her neck; works slowly to her shoulder, running his thumbs in soothing circles against her back.

He doesn’t know what’s spooked her, but does not see now as the moment to ask her; there’s a shuddering to her breath that makes him think she’s like to cry if he asks her speak, so Henry stays silent, gentle in the press of his mouth over her skin and steadily increasing the pressure of his fingertips, massaging. It may be nothing more than apprehension - simple  _ anxiety _ , from a girl who’s been a wife but only ever to a boy, confronted with the strength and weight of a man grown. Regardless; it is the first falter he’s seen in her, her first and only moment of hesitation since her arrival, at all unsure of herself.

Henry’s not sure how much time passes - he’s certainly not  _ impatient _ , happy with the warmth of her under his hands, raising goosebumps along her neck. She starts to relax; she shifts her legs up, knees pressing to his ribs, and both her hands come to span his chest. She turns her head, interrupting his path to the edge of her shoulder and catching his mouth against hers. Her body presses into him entirely; she curls up against him, fingers moving up to hold him at the shoulders and pull him towards her.

Grinning against her mouth, Henry takes the hint, readjusting to secure his arm around the small of her back and lifting her, holding her body up against his as he climbs onto the bed, onto her, and bringing them both to the center of it. Her arms come around his neck, and she gives over to him entirely, her head falling back with the break of a whimper when he bends to run the tip of his nose between her breasts.

Henry works slowly down Mary’s body; she sighs at the drag of his tongue and teeth against her nipple, pink and perfect and hard in Henry’s mouth - but she is a woman of ample figure, and Henry knows she’s likely to be less sensitive than a girl of smaller size, there, so he moves on. He charts the expanse of her body with kisses - some light and teasing, some open-mouthed and hot; he bites her waist so she’s laughing, squirming away, and then giggling and groaning when his lips meet the shadowed jut of her hip, her body stutters to press  _ up _ to the sensation of his mouth. Henry taunts her, dragging his teeth against the line of bone while one hand cups her ribcage, warm and solid, and the other drifts aimless lines along her thigh.

By the time his fingers reach her center, Henry thinks she doesn’t  _ need _ anymore, anything else than him inside her, but he knows how he wants to do this - how he wants to  _ have  _ the Queen of Scots, lustful and wanton and  _ begging  _ by the time he has her on his cock.

She jerks, spasms; her breath catching hard in the back of her throat with the lift of her hips when two fingers press into her; he does not push far, testing, reaching his first knuckle and curving his fingers just enough for Mary’s pelvis to lift, for one of her hands to find purchase in his hair.

He stays where he is, mouth on the curving, soft line of her abdomen. He can watch her from here; the full arch of her body when he presses deeper, flexing his wrist to run his fingertips in small circles deep within her. Her moan breaks in her mouth, catching high and breathy and  _ whimpering _ , and Henry feels her clench around him. Pleased, he shifts to sit up between her legs, sitting back on his ankles and dragging his free hand slowly the length of her torso, breaking the simple, slow pace of his fingers with the ball of his palm, pressing to the centre of sensitivity at the apex of her thighs.

Again, Mary clenches - she shudders as she relaxes and never gets there all the way; the jump of her body catches again, Henry speeding his rhythm and punctuating it with the pressure of his palm.

It seems to be enough for her; not direct contact with the tips of his fingers, but radiated between her legs. Both her hands are fisted in the bed, now, and Henry feels the change in her body; her hips locking instead of lifting when he thrusts, a shudder working through her from somewhere low in her abdomen.

Henry knows sex. Henry knows  _ women _ . And the pained, desperate, loud  _ whine _ Mary lets out when he pulls away from her completely, moments before edging her to her climax, is entirely predictable, and Henry’s favourite trick to play.

She starts to sit up, frustrated, brow knit like she’s confused and eyes a far-away sort of glossy Henry takes absolute pride in. She doesn’t get the chance to scold him. He presses up her body, one arm flat to the bed beside her for his balance as she lays back down. Her leg comes back up to his hip and Henry closes his fist around himself, rubbing against the wet heat of her. He doesn’t bother teasing; she’s  _ past _ worked up, and he truly believes Mary is a woman more likely to offer her own punishment in return than submit completely to the direction of his hands - so he doesn’t push it; he just  _ thrusts _ , unable to muffle the heavy, guttural groan he gives as he buries himself in her.

Mary doesn’t seem to mind; Mary is crying out herself, one arm around his shoulders, the other coming under his arm to span her hand against his back. Henry loves this; the clinging of her, the desperation to have him  _ closer _ , and he reaches to dig his fingertips into her ass, tilting her hips higher into him. His hand is big enough to curve the span of her thigh, moving up to catch under her knee once more, this time to let him press her leg back as he presses  _ deeper _ .

It changes the angle; it changes  _ Mary _ , the breathless whimpering suddenly a heavier noise, gruff and choked.

“You need it deep, sweetheart,” Henry mutters hot against her ear, lips pressing open-mouthed to the corner of her jaw. She’s nodding and humming  _ yes _ , turning her head to catch him in a disorganized kiss, whining with Henry’s lip in her teeth.

She doesn’t just let him fuck her - Henry’s had plenty of woman who were happy enough to do as he pleased, move as he guided - but Mary  _ knows _ what she wants from him, is bringing her other leg up to let him go deeper, is rolling her hips and clenching around him in a desperate, driven sort of way.

Mary is loud when she climaxes; she sobs out her orgasm, shivering and tensing beneath him. Henry buries his face in her shoulder, locking his jaw and steeling himself because he’s not  _ finished  _ with her yet, and fucks her through it - earning a second, smaller burst of tension the length of her spine, a breathy, surprised moan breaking in his ear.

Henry slows down; Mary’s teeth catch his earlobe, the tip of her nose traces the shell of his ear and her nails graze his scalp. He doesn’t stop and she’s trying to catch her breath, he can feel it, sits back once more, letting his eyes rake the reddened, glistening expanse of skin before him. Her hips are still rolling into his and Henry watches, for a beat, the rhythmed press of himself into her - the pressure hot and almost all-consuming, her body jerking in barely-there aftershock around him.

Her eyes are closed; he knows she’s still  _ with _ him because she’s still moving, but she looks otherwise entirely blissful and distant, and Henry smirks to himself, both hands moving to bracket over her hips, giving him grip to hold her in place.

She doesn’t expect him to speed up.

Her eyes fly open with the break of her whimper and Henry is leaning back over her, just enough to give himself leverage, one hand moving to bring her leg up, against his shoulder, offering him grip at her thigh. Mary tenses quickly; she doesn’t move with him, this time - she  _ can’t _ , really, because Henry’s fucking her  _ hard _ and  _ fast _ and she’s grabbing for him, finding purchase around his wrist and fisting her other hand in the bed.

“Henry -  _ Henry _ \- “ he’s sweating, and panting, and feels flushed and hot and  _ powerful _ , breaking her on him. Her breathing stutters quick and short and then stops, and she’s turning her face away from him when she climaxes this time, silent and wracking with full-body shudders. Henry doesn’t stop, moves one hand to grip her shoulder and go  _ harder _ , earning the shatter of her silence and a loud, entirely undignified, entirely involuntary  _ cry _ when she’s forced to breathe in the middle of it - and that’s it, for him; the sight of her  _ truly _ , entirely naked, without decorum or formality. Sex is the only experience in which Henry is sure of himself as simply Henry Tudor, not the King, not  _ anything _ , and his head bows as he spills himself inside her, dropping his breakneck pace into the erratic stutter of hips and euphoria and nothing else.

When he finds himself again, Henry is resting with his forehead against Mary’s sternum and her fingers are still raking through his hair - far gentler than before, slow and rhythmic with the rise and fall of her chest.

Exhaustion floods through him; he lets out a slow breath, pressing his lips to her skin, and says nothing. The afterglow is comfortable - her feet are on the bed, legs fallen away from him, and Henry closes his eyes.

“We should sleep,” he mutters eventually, only because he can feel himself slipping into it, and lifts his head to find her already gone.

Her eyes are closed, lips parted over slow, even breaths, her head tilted to the side. Her hair is a mess of tangles, sweat still sticking it to her temples, and Henry sits for a moment, trying to decide how best to shift her without waking her.

It’s pointless - she rouses, starting to turn in her sleep and letting out a tiny, confused noise when she’s stopped by Henry, still fit between her hips. She blinks back to consciousness; blinks at him, and a satisfied, exhausted smile curves itself into her mouth.

“Sleep,” he says again, and there’s a beat of  _ something _ \- she looks away from him, just for a moment, her brow knits and she takes a breath like she’s going to say something - and then she’s just smiling again, nodding, and moving away from him.


	5. sapphires and gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relief.
> 
> It is a tangible presence, today; Greer feels the spectre amongst them, bumping shoulders with she and her friends. Even those against Mary’s wedding - James, most pointedly - are relieved, able to breathe once more with their Queen wedded and bedded; and happily so, in the case of all appearance. In the case of all whispers, more importantly. The castle had been abuzz the entire day with rumour and talk of the couple’s late morning love-making - and Mary and the King both bore a glow of pride and satisfaction, already clearly comfortable in each other’s company in a way they had not been the day before.
> 
> So, Greer is relieved; and she knows she’s not alone, knows that even Kenna, so rarely serious, had been buried in worry for Mary’s wellbeing. But it’s an odd, bittersweet sort of relief; standing amongst the court, watching her friend meet dignitaries and diplomats as a newlywed once again - only now, Greer is watching an aged, broken mirror to the days after Mary and Francis’ wedding. And Greer is relieved, hopeful - and sad.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**SAPPHIRES AND GOLD - CHAPTER 5**

**JULY, 1527**

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

**MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS**

_ BERWICK CASTLE _

 

Henry makes love to her again in the morning; beneath the covers, at her behest. It’s fast, and deep; once more, he tucks Mary’s legs up, caught against his chest while his hands balance on the bed. The rock of his body against hers is languid, but short; every thrust forcing sparks of gold heat into her hips, fracturing through her spine. Most overwhelming is the near-constant pressure of her legs, tucked tight, and his body against the tense, radiating centre of pleasure above the connection of their bodies.

They reach their climax together, Mary’s cry muffled into the flat of his hand and Henry’s mouth buried against Mary’s shoulder.

He shifts, bringing his arms up to rest his elbows on the bed at either side of her head, kissing her slow and dizzy. She lets her legs fall, lets herself melt into the bed, lets herself melt into him.

It had been a different thing entirely, to be with a man nearly a stranger to her. She knew her husband by his face, by his body; by the fit of his hips between her legs, but she didn’t know who he  _ was _ . It was oddly -  _ exciting _ ; to be without the predication of a relationship, of  _ anything _ ; she was allowed to be within herself, and with him, entirely new.  _ Different _ . It was not the sweet, devoted lovemaking she had learned with Francis; it was not the conflicted, desperate passion of Conde.

They were of a singular purpose together. Their relationship was defined by formality and law; their connection defined by necessity. They  _ had _ to want each other, and knew little else about the other aside from the extent of their own desire. 

Mary thinks it feels like some odd kind of freedom.

There’s a thudding noise, then; followed by the under-breath of a curse, and Mary realizes they’re no longer alone.

Henry seems to realize it, too; there’s the rush of a laugh against her lips and then his head is turning to press into her collarbone. Mary starts laughing, too, bringing a hand up to grab a pillow and turning her head into it to deafen the sound.

“How long have they been there?” Mary asks softly, almost embarrassed, but too used to constant intrusion in the most private of moments to  _ truly  _ feel it. 

The other half of her is pleased; word that the newlywed royal couple had made love all night would be throughout the court by noon. 

“Long enough,” Henry shrugs, drifting his lips to her neck, “They may need the time to handle the mess we made.”

Mary laughs again, as he rolls off of her, his hand drifting the bare line of her torso as he goes. She thinks of the spilled wine and coins, their clothing thrown to the ground - the evidence was  _ everywhere. _

He grins at her before he sits up - and then, cruelly, pulls back the curtain of the four-poster, shamelessly naked and exposing them to the world.

Mary groans in faux dramatics, rolling away.

He asks for his robe, and Mary rolls over when she feels the bed lift from the release of his weight. He’s tying it off and smiles at her, leaning back in with both hands on the bed to kiss her again.

“Lady Castleroy,” he starts as he leans back, and Mary feels her eyes go wide. She had thought their company were lower servants - not her  _ ladies _ . “The Queen’s robe, would you? And send for an early meal for Her Majesty, she is ravenous.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she hears, and then he’s out of Mary’s view, leaving for his own rooms.

In a beat, Kenna is perched at the end of the bed, Lola grinning as she comes around the corner.

“Ravenous?” Kenna repeats, and Mary rolls her eyes - and rolls over, pressing her face to the bed.

“We did  _ hear _ you, Mary -“

“I know!” Mary cuts Lola off, shifting onto her back again and tucking the covers against her chest. “I feel sometimes that you all know far too much about me,” she adds, and Kenna breaks into a laugh.

“As is our charge, Your Majesty. We are to know you better than ourselves,” Greer cuts in, appearing with Mary’s robe.

“So we  _ must _ know what you thought of the King,” Kenna adds solemnly, but the corner of her mouth is twitching mischief. Mary sighs.

“I liked him very well.”

“Well I should  _ think _ so,” Kenna gives, vulgarity permeating every rise of her voice as she leans forward, touching two fingers to the skin just below Mary’s left collarbone. She tilts her head the best she can, to look - at purpling, bruising indented, clearly, in a bitemark.

Mary groans, dropping back on the bed and trying to pull the covers over her head.

“He had you more than once?” Kenna asks, and Mary nods under the blankets. There’s a chortle of breathless laughter, and Greer is exasperatedly tugging at the covers.

“We’re already running late, Mary. You ought to rise and eat,” she says, and Mary sighs and sits up, taking the offered covering as she stands.

Kenna is still sitting on her bed and, treasonously, lays back, sprawling her arms out above herself.

“I expect he’s a  _ generous _ lover. He seems the sort of man to work a woman up, wants her  _ begging _ him for it so he’s simply acquiescing her request,” Mary’s doing her best to ignore her friend and the buzzing, exhausted soreness of satisfaction burning in her body. She has responsibilities, today - she and the King are to receive, formally as the ruling couple, the foreign dignitaries and diplomats that had attended their wedding the night before. Mary had met a number of them individually already; she knew the King had done the same, but this would be their first ceremonial appearance, wedded and bedded.

“Please, Kenna,” Mary pleads, seating herself before the beaten silver mirror with her plate. She  _ is _ ravenous, and ignores the way Greer eyes her as she shoves food in her mouth. It could be a reaction to how  _ rude _ Mary’s being, or it could be an assessment of just exactly how little sleep Mary got. Either way - Mary’s done worrying about it.

She had come to England with a purpose, and she had succeeded.

She was married to the King - a marriage that was consummated twice-over, undeniable with the servants hearing them, and Henry’s late morning return to his rooms. The entire party would set out from Berwick the next day, beginning the summer progress back to London that served both as a wedding tour, and Mary’s chance to learn her new country.

Upon their return, Mary would be crowned Queen of England. They would travel to Scone the next summer, and Henry would be invested as King Consort. They were married, their countries united; once they had an heir, Mary would be finally, completely  _ safe _ .

Mary had not felt  _ truly _ safe since -

“I panicked,” she remembers abruptly, aloud. “I - froze. He’d grabbed me, and - “ Mary breaks off, shaking her head. She can feel the warmth of Greer’s hands hovering over her shoulders and leans back into her friend’s comfort.

“What did you say?” Lola asks softly. Mary opens her eyes; her friend is before her, leaning against Mary’s vanity - in her peripheral, Mary can see Kenna sitting on the pallet bed, listening.

“Nothing,” Mary admits, shaking her head. “And he - nothing. He kissed my neck, rubbed my back, and - and  _ waited _ ,” she explains. It’s confusing, as she works through it aloud; it was  _ not _ the reaction she had expected, nor feared. He had been quiet and patient and respectful and that was all; he had not even asked after the moment in the morning, only followed Mary’s lead when she woke to wanting him.

“He may have just thought you nervous, Mary,” Lola suggests, offering a single-shouldered shrug and looking over Mary’s head at Greer. “And he’s an older man. More - experienced. More patient. You can’t be the first woman nervous to be with the King,” she goes on, and Mary lets her attention slip aimlessly on the embroidery at the front of Lola’s dress, remembering the svelte, lean line of her husband’s torso, an expanse of taut muscle; the sharp V cut into his waist - his legs, strong and toned, lifting her to the table, carrying her to the bed - and his  _ arms _ ; the King was undoubtedly an athlete, and his stature was deceptive to the definition to his body.

“Yes,” Mary agrees, because they’re waiting, and nods. They  _ are _ right - at most, Henry had likely suspected wedding night jitters from her, his young bride.

What was surprising was how comfortably  _ intimate _ it had been. The conversation Henry had started their evening with - Mary had not been taken aback by it, nor the degree of his offense at her insubordination, or his protective inclinations towards Anne. Mary had meant what she’d told him, however; no, she hadn’t been seeking to employ Anne, but only because the words would have been useless to bother speaking. She  _ did _ see why Anne, beautiful and smart and observant; resourceful, cunning,  _ brave _ \- was the King’s favourite. As a woman she was devastating; even Mary knew that, would be quick to admit it. Anne was not a someone easily ignored - she pulled the light in a room, moved like she was meant to mesmerize - but more than that, Mary thought it clear that Anne was an  _ asset _ , and Mary wanted Anne on her side.

“He knew I met with Anne, asked why,” Mary offers, lost in her thoughts as her ladies, faithfully, help her ready for the day. “He was very angry at first, but -”

Despite his anger - despite his frustration with Mary, and whatever regret or conflict he may have been feeling about Anne, once Mary had his attention, she  _ knew _ she had his attention. Not once did it slip - not once did she suspect he was seeing someone else when he looked at her; he was not pretending at anything, and neither was she. She had felt safe with him; she had  _ known _ he would take care of her, secure in the not-too-tight grip of his hands on her thighs, her hips - in the confident, intent manipulation of her body. He knew what he was doing and was paying attention to her reactions, responding to them - he was  _ present _ with her entirely, and more than anything else, Mary was surprised to realize that she knew herself to have been the same.

“But?” Greer prompts, the low drag of her voice giving away her own anxiety. If Mary were more awake, a little quicker, she might tease her friend for her outright  _ dislike _ of Anne.

“But I reminded him I am his equal, when he was angry I had not asked him first. That seemed to rather - frustrate him…” Mary trails off, remembering the  _ obvious _ response in his body to her pride and stubbornness. “And excite him,” she adds, and Lola breaks a laugh.

“Of  _ course _ ,” she says, shaking her head and laughing again. “His rows with Anne are near legendary, Mary, and from what we’ve heard, they’re most like to end them in bed together. He doesn’t want softness,” Lola goes on, and Mary can’t help but smile.

“Well,” she gives, shoving more bread in her mouth, “He won’t be getting any.”

 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

**LADY GREER CASTLEROY**

_ BERWICK CASTLE _

 

Relief.

It is a tangible presence, today; Greer feels the spectre amongst them, bumping shoulders with she and her friends. Even those against Mary’s wedding - James, most  _ pointedly _ \- are  _ relieved _ , able to breathe once more with their Queen wedded and bedded; and  _ happily  _ so, in the case of all appearance. In the case of all  _ whispers,  _ more importantly _.  _ The castle had been abuzz the entire day with rumour and talk of the couple’s late morning love-making - and Mary and the King  _ both _ bore a glow of pride and satisfaction, already clearly comfortable in each other’s company in a way they had not been the day before.

So, Greer is relieved; and she knows she’s not alone, knows that even Kenna, so rarely serious, had been buried in worry for Mary’s wellbeing. But it’s an odd, bittersweet sort of relief; standing amongst the court, watching her friend meet dignitaries and diplomats as a newlywed once again - only now, Greer is watching an aged, broken mirror to the days after Mary and Francis’ wedding. And Greer is relieved, hopeful - and  _ sad _ .

Greer had not often seen eye to eye with the King of France; she could not. He had broken Mary’s heart too many times over; he had complicated Lola’s life irrefutably, and against her will with the selfishness of acknowledging John, whatever his intentions may have been. He had taken everything from Greer; her husband, her family, her  _ life _ . She understood more, now, as to  _ why _ \- but even understanding did not necessitate forgiveness, and she would not forgive him for what he had done to her family, for the blindly dispensed consequences of his decisions, a detachment of royalty that Mary had never been so isolated as to meet, and Greer had come to hate in Francis. On the same turn - Greer did not regret the choices she had had to make - she did not regret Rose, nor the brothel, nor even Martin; Greer had given up on regret after Leith. There was no space for it, in living; not in  _ really _ living, anyway - nor was there space for grudges, or hate. So Greer had not forgiven Francis, but she had allowed herself the luxury of forgetting her own anger - and she had even come to love him as her King, perhaps; she thought she had come to know some truths of him, trying to learn him through Lola’s eyes, Mary’s - even John’s; what he was as a father. Francis had been intelligent. optimistic; bright and sincere as sunlight - but his tragedy was as much the too-early and too-complete break of Mary’s heart as that he had never had the chance to grow past the dangerous, targeted throne he inherited, had no opportunity to reverse the ruthless reputation left by his father.

It’s a stark, excruciating contrast to the living, dazzling sunshine of Henry VIII. The English King cuts the figure of a one-time warrior, now gilded and golden; bearing a blood-spattered chivalry, he is dignified and confident in his Kingship, settled within himself and his role. King Henry had grown into his crown; had lived many lives, had loves and losses and made mistakes; it’s a maturity that stands well beside Mary, who had now survived and  _ lead _ with a heart more broken than she should have a right to. It’s imposing, and powerful; Mary has always carried the weight of a lifelong divine authority upon straight shoulders - but with Francis that heaviness had been contrasted against golden, hopeful youth. With this King, it’s emphasized; darkened, even.

Still - they seem to enjoy each other; a gentleman bows away and the King leans from his seat to mutter something to Mary, who smiles, nodding at him as they sit back. Even at a slight distance, Greer can see the pink colouring her Queen’s face; delight, amusement, perhaps something more. Greer smiles to herself at it, chancing a glance to the side to find her reflection on Lola’s face.

Mary had clearly been euphoric, that morning; well-cared for and satisfied; even  _ without _ the proof of breathy cries they’d pretended not to hear before the King had pulled the curtains back. Greer was hardly embarrassed by such things anymore; had never allowed herself to give into embarrassment at her constant intrusion of Mary’s privacy because it was her  _ job _ ; it was her duty to the Queen to know too much, all the time. 

She'd grown numb to it, particularly because Mary had never _truly_ been able to. S he had spent enough time in and out of nunneries and caring for herself that she had a stubborn, modest sort of independence in many moments. She resented the trappings of her position, Greer knew; but then Greer had been left with nothing, and then Greer had been a madam, and then she had had a bastard baby by a Pirate. She was intimidated by nothing, anymore; particularly the threat of Mary's frustrated embarrassment, or the sound of her pleasure - she had heard  _ far _ worse, by now - which was  _ why _ she had struggled so to join Kenna and Lola in their merciless teasing, that morning.

Greer  _ wanted _ Mary to feel she could talk to her, openly, without fear of being teased or judged, about her coupling with the King. It was important, Greer thought - particularly after her struggle to conceive with Francis. It was not that Greer though they were doing it  _ wrong _ ; she had walked in on many mornings between the young lovers much the same as she had today - but with the threat of Anne Boleyn, a constant diversion of the King’s attention, Greer wanted to make sure nothing was a surprise. Being Mary’s confidante was as much an act of love as her friend as it was an act of duty to her country.

“This must nearly be over,” Kenna mutters, tone low and whining. Lola lets out a breath of a laugh and Greer sighs, shaking her head.

“You’re worse than the children."

“I’m  _ bored _ . They’re all so terribly dry,” she goes on, and Greer  _ agrees _ \- thus far the afternoon has been an apparently endless wheel of oddly similar men nearing middle age, offering Mary rehearsed and empty compliments and congratulations to the King. Greer’s doing her best not to  _ encourage  _ Kenna’s complaining, however - not that the tactic has done much in the many years they’ve spent together - and just shoots Kenna a sharp look, earning an eyeroll in return.

“This won’t be dry,” Lola gives, her voice rising in a burst of panic, and Greer can’t see anything besides the man’s hat over the shoulder of the gentleman before her. Kenna sucks air between her teeth.

“Damnit,”

“ _ Kenna _ , don’t curse - “ Greer’s pressing up on her toes, the scold a half-thought, automatic, and then she’s locking both hands over her mouth to bury her own swear.

John Knox is sweeping the King an inordinately elaborate bow, and Kenna’s starting to pull Greer forward in the crowd before her feet are flat again. They manage to push to the front as he rises - causing more of a scene than Greer would like, eyes turning to them as the trio stumbles into place - but she’s too focused on Mary to care  _ enough _ .

Her Queen is giving nothing away - she sits straight, her face a polite, smiling mask as she offers Knox her hand to kiss. It’s only when the man rises to step back that Mary’s eyes flick up - for only a moment; in less than the span of a breath they meet Greer’s and burst wide, flashing panic.

Then it’s gone. The mask is back; just barely waxen, so quickly Greer’s just barely sure she saw anything.

“Your Majesties, my sincerest congratulations on your marriage. I have prayed for the happiness of your union, and the blessing of a lively royal nursery.”

The words are kind enough; but Greer can hear the snake in them, even with Knox’s back to her. The King’s head inclines as he gives his thanks, welcoming Knox to his court - the same rote of every introduction thus far. And then Knox speaks again.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Your reputation precedes you, and I’m sure I speak for many Scotsmen when I express my deep relief and pleasure at the influence of a true monarch in Scotland.”

The room falls silent; sharp, abrupt, the air goes out. Greer feels the thread of cold anger settling into her chest - and ignores it; sets it aside for  _ later _ , instead searching the faces of her fellow courtiers for any who may agree with the Reverend’s treason. Beside her, Kenna’s hands ball into fists, and Greer sees James, a head taller than half the court, looking between his sister and Knox with an expression of blank, bare panic.

Mary is furious. Greer knows her Queen too well to be sure if it’s as obvious to anyone else - but there’s a line in her forehead, creased by the blunt, challenging arch of her eyebrow. Her posture is razored; her knuckles whiting where her hands curve on the ornate arms of her chair. Beside her, the King is unreadable.

Mary smiles - Greer sees the flare of her temper in the flickering  _ blade _ at the corner of her mouth, a cut of caution to anyone who knows her.

“Reverend Knox; thank you for your attendance. It is touching to receive such a  _ sincere _ blessing from a man so accomplished yourself.” she starts, and sits forward, just barely, confidently reaching to curve her fingers over Henry’s hand. He does not smile; but turns his hand to clasp Mary’s. “His Majesty and I wish you well on your return to Scotland. Please, take care.”

The silence does not break; the stillness does not shift. Knox is known for talking his way around Mary’s wishes - but the dismissal is absolute; the order has left no room to maneuver, and finally, he sweeps into a bow of departure.

“Thank you, Your Majesties.”

“Reverend Knox.”

The King releases Mary’s hand and stands, starting down the few steps of the dias and towards the man. Mary does not move; a statement in and of itself, decorum does not dictate she must rise with her husband because they are equals. The King’s hand clamps, solid, on Knox’s shoulder, turning him to the other side of the crowd, where his friends are.

“Please meet my dear friend, Sir Anthony Knivert. I should like to offer you his escort for your travels.”

There’s the shaking of hands - a muttering through the room, and Greer hears Knox’s begrudging thanks.

“Of course; it is no small matter to ensure the safety of such a beloved servant of my wife,” the King returns, as though he hasn’t just assigned the man a  _ chaperone _ \- half his age and barely noble - and Greer  _ can’t _ look at Kenna when she hears the sudden, telling rush of breath that is her  _ laughing _ \- because if she does then Greer will laugh too, and it would be a terrible crime to interrupt the spectacle of Knox’s humiliation with such triviality.

The Reverend retreats; Greer gets a look at  _ Knivert _ , who seems as roguish as the rest of the King’s friends, and is smirking in bare, mocking triumph. The King returns to Mary; he catches her hand once more as he sits, and half-bends to drift his lips over her knuckles - a show of respect and deference beautifully performed, emphasised prettily by an easy smile from Mary, dimples setting in a slight flush.

“Oh.”

Greer agrees entirely with Kenna’s assessment - and offers her a straight look to say as much, nodding. Kenna glances behind them and then steps back, and Greer follows with Lola at her side, retreating just enough from the edge of the crowd to hide within it again.

Or, so Greer thinks - for a beat, and then  _ George Boleyn _ is there with them, bemusement marring his handsome face.

“The Reverend is not a friend of our Queen’s?” He asks lightly, quietly, and Greer shakes her head, offering him a bland smile.

“No,” she answers simply, and does her best to step obtrusively into his space, hoping he’ll melt away again.

He doesn’t. He hums, nodding, and moves to stand on Lola’s other side.

“Then he is no friend of the King’s. Knivert’s a scoundrel, the Reverend is not likely to enjoy their time together,” he says it with a smirk, mirthful and giving Lola a sidelong glance; Greer sees him  _ wink _ , and her jaw locks.

He is a spy, of course; there’s no other reason for his interest in them, it can only be information-gathering for his sister’s sake. Greer does not trust him and never will; she can feel the echo of her sentiment in Kenna’s tense bristling beside her, her shoulder brushing Greer’s as she leans to listen.

Lola is of a different opinion.

“A scoundrel?” She asks, prompting, and Greer sees the curve of her mouth. “Only the sort of accusation another scoundrel might make.”

George laughs; it’s a genuine break of noise, Greer’s almost  _ sure _ . He seems delighted in his own amusement, turning to Lola with a grin.

“An apt observation, Lady Fleming. I’ve been caught.”

“Hardly fair, my Lord. Your reputation precedes you.”

Greer almost  _ gasps _ \- it’s a harsh, outright line; the philandering of the Boleyn heir is no secret, but generally, it pales in comparison to the scandal of his sisters. Lola doesn’t seem to care.

Nor does George.

“As does yours, my Lady.”

There’s laughter in his words; and Lola chuckles, shrugging delicately.

“It seems we may have much to speak of,” he says, “Might I ride as your companion, tomorrow?”

Now, Greer looks at Lola - who  _ doesn’t look back _ , apparently entirely intent on the man at her side, inclining her head towards him.

“With Her Majesty’s permission, my Lord. Of course.”

Greer closes her eyes, biting hard on her back teeth and offering a passing goodbye to her short-lived respite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chap. don't lose faith. next one's a monster. follow http://instagram.com/ajar.ofgoodthings for updates, & as always, feedback welcome & appreciated!!! //ev out


	6. sugarstains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry wonders if it was that which had offered the foundation upon which his parents’ marriage, family and rule had been built - shared purpose. The purpose of their marriage was to bring an end to civil war that had taken brothers, fathers, and uncles from them both - the purpose of their marriage bed was to ensure that that chaos, that bloodshed, never ravaged their people again.
> 
> Henry makes love to Anne to worship her body, her soul - to bring to her the bliss and happiness she has brought him, simply by existing; he dedicates himself to her, her pleasure and euphoria, as an expression of his devotion to her, a display of the adoration he has never been able to put into words. No less - and he knows this, it is no less - making love to Mary is making love to his country; it is an act of patriotism, it is a tribute to his family; to the blood of the men, husbands and fathers, to the love of the women, wives and mothers - who came before him. It’s sacred; she is an anointed Queen as he is King and when they are talking to God and acting in His name, as rulers and lovers.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**SUGAR STAINS**

**JUNE - JULY, 1527**

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

**LADY LOLA FLEMING**

_BERWICK CASTLE_ **  
  
**

The court is an organized chaos; the unfinished melding of households aflutter in the panic and disarray of setting off across the country, spanned in high tension and alarm throughout the castle courtyard.

Really, Lola’s rather enjoying it.

She’s _not,_ really; Greer is wound so tight she’s as good as squeaking and Kenna’s irritable bursts of anxiety are punctuated by melancholy silence - but, aside from the predictable, anxious gloom of her friends, this is where Lola _belongs_.

She’d grown up travelling with the Scottish court, even more than Mary had; chaos was her most constant companion, the excitement and anxiety of the next day’s unknown having been easy bedfellows for most of her life. Lola loved the quiet when she could have it; but the bustle and break of people beside her, pressing almost too close as they move through the courtyard, certainly doesn’t unsettle her.

To her endless delight, it doesn’t bother _John_ , either.

Plodding determinedly along beside her, his fingers clutch tight to her hand, but his expression - which she has full view of because he's he’s got his head tilted almost completely back, so she has to half-pull him along through the crowd, keeping him from tripping over his own feet - is one of absolute awe. He is grinning, his eyes wide in his face and round cheeks red and bright; when he sees her looking at him, he peals a giggle of pleasure, and then his attention is pulled again by a horse being lead by.

“Does he want a better look?”

Her peace is punctured by a low voice, lilting genuinely but nearly too close for comfort. Lola’s head snaps to the side, and finds George Boleyn, having fallen into apparently matching pace beside her.

Well - _damn it_. She had mostly thought he was bluffing.

He’s looking at her sidelong as they walk, the curve of a grin just barely in his mouth. He's been hovering, ever slightly closer, since they arrived - eyeing her when she thinks he cannot see him; or perhaps, eyeing her _exactly_ when he knows that she can. Lola doesn't feel threatened, though; there is nothing in her screaming precaution. She thinks she could probably ignore him, if she wanted to; she thinks his not-quite smile is a little more genuine than what she would expect of a renowned philanderer.

“Lord Boleyn,” she gives, a decision before she really _makes_ a decision, and John has picked up pace where she’s almost-faltered, now tugging at her hand as he tries to get them to another horse, this time a massive hunter wearing an expensively trimmed, gleaming saddle.

“Mama! Mama!” Lola has to look down as John starts to pull away from her, and to her half-surprise, George stops alongside her, standing above them like a guarding, handsome shadow as she bends to her son’s height.

“John, you must walk beside me. It’s dangerous,” she gives, meeting bright blue eyes seriously. Solemnly, her son nods, a barely-there jut to his bottom lip.

“Lady Fleming - Really, a man must know his surroundings. Right, John? You can ride on my shoulders and see everything,” George offers again, direct, an overstep that makes Lola’s skin prickle - but John is too heavy for her to carry all morning, and she knows he’s prone to distraction, and wandering when he gets the chance. It's too dangerous for him to be underfoot here, out of sight or mind of soldiers and horses and carts.

Besides - his eyes are huge, trained in awe on the towering figure George casts from the ground.

“All right,” Lola sighs, straightening with John’s fingers still clutched to her palm. “John, this is Lord Boleyn,” she introduces, irritated by her own endearment when the man offers her son his hand to shake, half-crouching to his level.

“Hello, Lord Boleyn,” John gives politely, and George grins, gesturing for John to turn around before picking him up, hands wide and secure at his middle, and lifting him over his head, to set him sitting round his shoulders.

Immediately, John is delighted - he’s beaming, and lets out a peal of laughter as George rises to full height, bringing him a head above the entire crowd. His feet kick out, ankles bouncing on George’s shoulders, and George’s hands move to hold tight over his legs, keeping him in place.

“Hold on!” George decrees, and John’s fingers lock obediently - into his _hair_. Lola moves to redirect him, and George waves her hand away, smiling at her. “It’s a good grip,” he says, and Lola laughs, shaking her head.

“He’ll pull it.”

“I’ve had worse,” he says, and she almost doesn’t _get_ it, with her son on the man’s shoulders, but then George is smirking instead of grinning and he _winks_ , and Lola gets caught for a beat between the urge to slap him and how _hot_ she feels.

“I’m sure,” she settles for, derisively arching an eyebrow and turning to walk alongside him. “Where is your horse, where are you riding?” She asks idly, changing the subject. Above them, John is muttering happily to himself, narrating nonsense of their surroundings. She feels George look at her.

“Well, I suppose that depends on if the Queen agreed to my accompanying you, today,” he gives, and _oh_.

Lola had forgotten - well, no, she _hadn’t_ ; she had told Mary of it the night before, before the King had come to her rooms and they had been _dismissed_ \- but it had been a joke, more than anything. Lola had not really thought him _serious_ , even with the worry creasing Greer’s face when he’d asked; _Mary_ hadn’t really seemed all that concerned, either.

But she had suggested that Lola take advantage, if given the opportunity - if there was anything Mary or the rest of them had learned from their time in France, it was that information was power.

“Oh,” Lola manages, because she must say _something_ , and can feel George still looking at her. She’s not opposed to it - to playing spy, to flirting with a handsome man for the sake of his secrets; once upon a time she may have been, but she wasn’t a girl, anymore - somewhere along the line, their personal lives had become politics, as sure as Mary’s had ever been. As much as anything, the prospect was a challenge - a _game_.

“ _Oh_?”

“Well - “ She looks at him sidelong as they walk, letting herself drift them in the direction of her own mount. “Yes, she did - but in all honesty, My Lord, I was not sure you were serious. I had meant to ride with John for the morning, so he’d sleep in the litter all afternoon,” she explains, half-turning to him to show the self-deprecative blush she feels brighting her cheeks; “I must curry a little favour, with the nurse. He’s been a slight terror, with all the fuss of the wedding,” she explains, and George nods.

“You meant to ride astride with him, double?” He asks, curiosity toning the question. Lola nods, already unsurprised by this response from the Englishmen as a whole - they had met just as much surprise in France, a group of ladies riding astride alongside their Queen, but they had travelled by horseback there far less. It was something Lola had learned beside her band of brothers; much to her pleasure at the time, something she knew to be contrasted by Kenna and Greer’s own experiences. Neither had taken to riding as she had, when they were children - for both her friends, the skill had been a matter of necessity; Kenna’s father had insisted she learn when news of their young Queen’s interest had met them - and Greer had never been one to be shown up in any ability, by any of them.

“He’s quite comfortable with it,” she assures, glancing at him again. He’s not looking at her anymore, instead watching where they’re going, but his expression is one of genuine delight.

“I wish my mother had been like you when I was a boy, Lady Fleming,” he says, shaking his head slightly and laughing. “A full-sized horse, barely breeched,” he remarks, and Lola would feel judged if he didn’t so clearly _mean_ it, if he wasn’t absolutely beaming at the idea. “Well, if it is all right, I _was_ serious in my offer of companionship, for the day,” he goes on, and Lola finds herself smiling, sincere.

She doesn’t trust him - she’s sure he’s on his own reconnaissance mission; it could be the only reason for his interest, save perhaps the boy on his shoulders; an irrefutable temptation to any man of ambition. Lola wonders if she’s being _too_ open with him - too trusting with John, already; but she thinks that Catherine would likely trust George Boleyn with her grandson, whatever his relation to Anne’s rival - and looking at him now, Lola finds it hard to label George much of a villain.

Truth be told, George Boleyn has rather a kind countenance. He’s undeniably handsome; taller than Lola and leanly built, he has a dark complexion - dark, dense curls, eyes a warm black framed by thick eyelashes and a delicate brow. He’s cleanshaven, his cheekbones are set high in his face, cutting enough above the sharp border of his jaw that he might appear gaunt if it weren’t for the gold tan to his skin, and near-constant grin in a mouth made for merrymaking. He appears more a golden Knight of a man than the hedonist he's rumoured to be; but, Lola knows better than to be deceived by something so slight as one’s looks.

“It’s all right,” she agrees, because she has a duty to her country and her Queen and _anyway_ , John clearly likes the man, and George will be more likely to be able to answer a constant flood of toddler-questions about the particular events of the day than Lola. “Your sisters won’t miss you?”

It’s a dangerous question to ask - but the most obvious place to start, Lola thinks. She has no intentions of trying to play this man like she’s stupid; he already knows she knows better than that, or he wouldn’t be bothering her. As it is, he only smirks again, and shrugs.

“They have my poor brother-in-law to abuse,” he says, heaving a put-upon sigh of solidarity and shaking his head.

Feeling oddly like she’s agreed to something she doesn’t mean to, Lola laughs.  
  


 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

**HENRY VIII, KING OF ENGLAND**

_NORTHERN ENGLAND, ON PROGRESS_

 

On some nights, most often the sweetly-scented, too-warm evenings of the summer, Henry wishes he could speak to his father.

He’s spent so much _time_ since the man died, thinking of all the questions he should have asked him while he was alive - all the questions Henry had been too young, too naive, to know to ask. He had been eighteen, more than a man grown when he came to his crown - but he had been denied so many experiences, the moments of foolishness and folly that his friends had drunk and tripped their way through, learning in the safety of London’s shadows along the way. Henry had learnt _nothing_ until he had no one to teach him but himself; no one to answer to but himself. The freedom had been suffocating.

Sometimes it still was, and on some of those maudlin nights, Henry would sit up and drink himself sour, railing at his father in his head. There were so many things he wanted to _say_ \- when he lost himself to it, he could get so angry that he would disturb himself; so infuriated by the memory of gold shackles and his father’s constant disappointment for his younger son, driven sharply down the broken line of his nose, that he is left shaking in his seat.

On others, such as tonight, Henry thinks of the sort of man his father was, and what sort of man his father might want him to be.

He’s sure, entirely, that his father would be furious about Anne. The devoted fidelity of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York’s marriage was a match of true love that Henry had sincerely believed he had with Katherine; he had tried _hard_ to emulate their relationship. He had tried hard to make Katherine happy; they had both been creatures of pageantry and performance and in the same vein, he had steadfastly and publicly offered her his chivalry, and his heart.

But he had never been faithful.

His father would be furious with him, and his mother would be broken-hearted in her disappointment; but Henry still wants to speak to them both.

He wants to ask his father what was most important to him about being a husband; what he dedicated himself to in a marriage that had begun with so much blood shed on both sides, so many bodies buried. Henry VII had brought a century’s long civil war to an end, united the Royal Houses of England and secured his family’s future by his work in the marriage bed; but his son knew the partnership, the lifetime of trust and love that his parents had, had been about far more than that.

He wants to ask his mother how she loved a man she didn’t know; how she loved a man she should have hated, how she bore and raised his children and stood strong beside him through a reign of uncertainty, against a nobility bred to mistrust and treason. What had she loved _about_ him? Henry had never known his father to be a man of much emotion; or any, excluding dismay - but he had grown up hearing of his parents’ well-known affection for each other, and witnessed the comfort between them more than once, though their familial all together moments were few and far between.

What is most confusing, is Henry isn’t sure if he’d be asking the advice for Anne’s sake, or Mary’s. When it comes to them both, he mostly just feels _guilty_.

He has hurt Anne; he _is_ hurting Anne, and he knows it. It was a mistake - a grand, awful, _selfish_ mistake to bring her to Berwick with him. He had put her in harm’s way, to be discovered by the Queen; to be _cornered_ by the Queen - and to bear painful, constant witness to his duty by the girl, and his Kingdom.

“It is no bad thing to want your wife, Harry. Soon enough she’ll be in foal and you may do as you please.”

Charles offers the sentiment with genuine kindness, sincere in the face of Henry’s splay of torn grief, lain out shamelessly, near desperately, before his friend. He has explained the mess of his thoughts to his oldest friend already too many times over, tonight; the tug-of-war between his heart and his mind, his body and soul; between Mary and Anne - and Henry sighs, elbows propping to the table and burying his face in his hands.

Charles is right, of course; he often is, as frustrating as it is to Henry himself, a slight to his ego, a sting he has never _truly_ been able to brush away - but what’s more, while he’s right, he’s _also_ wrong. For Mary to be carrying his child is the first and last thing Henry thinks of, prays for, everyday; an heir, a legacy, a _son_ . It is all that he wants - _almost_.

He also wants Anne; and Henry is not a stupid man, not deaf or dumb to the realities of the situation, of Anne’s feelings and jealousies, her insecurity in her position. She will not take kindly to it, when Mary falls pregnant; particularly not if Mary is pregnant _before_ she is - and Henry, too, wants a son by Anne; bastards their children may be, they will still be _his_ children, his acknowledged children, and they will be raised with all the station and wealth of it. It would be safer, though, to have a legitimate boy, first - and Henry cannot spend nights with his mistress on his _wedding tour_.

“There is no choice to make without hurting one or the other. I cannot ease Anne’s pain without betraying my promises to my wife, I cannot be a true husband without hurting Anne more,” he laments once more, a succinct summary of a predicament so complicated Henry can barely come to comprehend it himself; it would be easier, he thinks, if _their_ relationship was more clear.

“Has Her Majesty made complaints?” Charles inquires lightly, refilling Henry’s drink. Henry shrugs, shaking his head.

“No,” he gives, nodding thanks as he takes the cup and gratefully gulping the ale. He is both dry-mouthed and light-headed and sets the drink down hard. “She has made queries,” he admits, grimacing uncomfortably at the consideration of it. They have not revisited the topic of Mary’s private meeting with Anne - they had come to an impasse, and Henry did not know what else to say. He is not going to forbid his wife from speaking to his mistress; he cannot build a wall between them _himself_ , not when he was the one most likely to be crushed by its eventual collapse - and he is not going to bring the topic back to table when he does not know what to _say_.

Anne had still come up, though; indirectly and then by name - Mary had asked how Henry had met her, and Henry had offered the story of the masque shortly and without detail - the conversation had felt like a _trap_ . What had been most unsettling was that the trap had never closed; Mary had listened, intently, her face an simple expression of open, sincere interest - and when he had broken off, awkward, aware himself that the storytelling had lacked his usual _flair_ … she had only blinked at him, and smiled, and then rode him so hard he thought she might break the bed.

It was all very confusing.

“About Anne?” Charles clarifies, his tone inflecting Henry’s own bewilderment, and Henry nods.

“Seems to want to know… about her. About her and I,” Henry explains, gaze slipping from his friend’s curious face to blur the wall behind him, his wife’s early-morning smiles swimming through his head. When he thinks about it, he realizes Mary _often_ ends up turning the conversation towards Anne - whether by name or no, they touch upon her nearly nightly, and her interest had yet to stray to any sort of jealousy, or malice; at least so far as Henry could see; and he tended to consider himself fairly well-versed in matters of envy and women.

“She’s young,” Charles shrugs, and Henry’s rather tired of hearing that as a catch-all explanation to the oddness of Mary. She _is_ young; but she is also very _old_ , and has known more of this world than most men Henry’s own age. These are facts he has considered obvious since early on; her reputation precedes her, but Mary has also only ever seemed to carry herself as a woman unlikely to bow before any storm, any sword, or any soul. “Perhaps she simply wants to know you, and those things that matter to you. Or, she is trying to learn what she can do to please you,” Charles suggests, and Henry shakes his head.

“Know me, yes. Please me?” Henry drains the rest of his drink, shaking his head again. “I don’t think this is a wife like to be often preoccupied with concerns so small as entertaining her husband’s passing pleasures, Your Grace,” he smirks a little then, leaning indulgently against the table towards his friend. “Unless of course, those pleasures are hers as well. She’s insatiable,” he gives, unable to resist bragging of Mary’s passion for him. He was still a good-looking man, after all; perhaps not so young as she, but not _old_ by any means - and he’d kept up with her, so far, though his thighs had been so sore from fucking her he’d nearly been unable to mount his horse, the first week. He had not let that  _stop_ him, after all.

Charles grins with him, laughing enough that Henry feels indulged, without feeling so much he must defend his wife’s honour - and Henry nods, when Charles gestures, asking after refilling their drinks. Mary will be expecting him soon, he knows; and the turn of conversation has him leaning out of his melancholy, into his heat for her and their shared purpose.

He wonders if it was that which had offered the foundation upon which his parents’ marriage, family and rule had been built - a shared purpose. The purpose of their marriage was to bring an end to civil war; a war that had taken brothers, fathers, uncles and cousins from them both - the purpose of their marriage bed was to ensure that that chaos, that bloodshed, never ravaged their people again.

Henry makes love to Anne to worship her body, her soul - to bring to her the bliss and happiness she has brought him, simply by existing; he dedicates himself to her, her pleasure and euphoria, as an expression of his devotion to her, a display of the adoration he has never been able to put into words. No less - and he knows this, it is _no less_ \- making love to Mary is making love to his country; it is an act of patriotism, it is a tribute to his family; to the blood of the men, husbands and fathers, to the love of the women, wives and mothers - who came before him. It’s sacred; she is an anointed Queen as he is King and when they are talking to God and acting in His name, as rulers and lovers.

It’s a purpose he had shared with Katherine, as well, but it was still - _different_. Henry wasn’t sure, why, yet; if it was as simple as his irrefutable attraction to Mary, and the fact that his passion for Katherine had waned with her looks as the years passed. It was something he hated to admit to; even, and perhaps especially to himself. Henry wanted to believe better of himself than that - that his love could be purer than sex, but he allowed himself the excuse, sometimes, that grief had permeated their relationship irrevocably. Every baby lost; every stillbirth, every miscarriage - it was another step back between them, another crack in the once-pristine mirror of their marriage.

He had always considered those things to be Katherine’s fault; it was a woman’s world and work, pregnancy and birth - but it was a man’s duty to protect his wife. Henry could not have protected her from the loss of their babies; but he _had_ left her alone to it.

“I cannot fail again,” Henry manages finally, realizing he has been quiet. “As a husband,” he clarifies, and feels the white-hot singe of guilt in his chest when Katherine’s face flashes behind his eyes, to sharpen on a blurred, half-imagined picture of their daughter. He has not seen her in a long time. “As a father,” he adds, and his beer had turned into another and then, he thinks, perhaps another, and he does not know how many he has had, but he knows he misses his daughter, and he misses Katherine, and he misses Anne and his father and mother, and - and he knows he is _drunk_ ; too drunk to go _to_ his wife, now.

How fortunate it is that she should instead come to him.

She has come with only one of her ladies, Lady de Poitiers, and Charles rises to answer the door when the guard knocks and announces her, and Henry is aware enough of himself to stand and bow to the woman.

It’s a mistake, though, for his vision moves slower than his eyes and he is not prepared for her when she speaks and he lifts his head again.

"You sent no word you would not be visiting me tonight... I wanted to ensure you were well, husband."

She has come to him already dressed for bed; and in considering her, he fixates on her body, realizing he has come to truly enjoy her penchant for finely made bedclothes. It is a specific thing; all of her clothing is luxurious and well-made, of course, but her nighttime attire is always particularly beautiful, and detailed. Tonight, the collar of her shift is embroidered beautifully in cloth-of-gold and her robe is one he has not seen yet, a midnight-blue velvet, trimmed luxuriously in sable. It is reminiscent of the gown she wore their first evening together - and, he notes, heavier and warmer than anything she’s worn yet. He should ask her about that; he should ask if she's cold, is she well? He's looking back up to her, meaning to ask - but the robe is tied above her waist, pulling it tight against her breasts, so he cannot _help_ but stare - and when his eyes flick back up to hers, he knows he has been caught. Mary just smiles, her head tilting as she takes him in.

Henry smirks at her, unapologetically lascivious. Her eyebrows raise, sharp - and then delight, pure and unadulterated, brightens her expression.

She is laughing, mirthful and _true_ , and he knows she knows he is drunk and Henry does not care, so long as she is forever as honest with him as she is now - laughing at him, and crossing around the table to rest her hands against his shoulders.

“Are you drunk, Your Majesty?” She asks, still beaming, and looks between he and Charles and Kenna - then back to him, so Henry is smiling once more himself.

Oh, she is lovely. Mary is lovely and sweet; quick-witted and kind, and Henry is besotted by her. He knows this; but the knowing of it, the acknowledgement of the soft, subtle sort of affection he is finding for his new wife, makes him ache for the fire of Anne in his belly.

Still, Henry leans into the woman before him.

“Only a little,” he admits, bringing a hand up to cover her own against his collar, curving his fingers over hers and bringing the tips of hers to his lips, just lightly. “Or more,” he goes on with a nod, and she laughs again as her hand falls, now to his chest. “I ought to be put to bed,” he finishes, and Charles is smirking and Henry, despite himself, yawns into his hand, leaning away from Mary in the movement.

“Yes,” she says, hand moving to his arm, spanning fingers over his bicep. “Your Grace, Lady de Poitiers - you may dismiss the servants before you leave, please. I will attend to His Majesty this evening.”

Henry nods his agreement to her orders, uncaring if either Charles or Kenna are truly paying attention - _he’s_ not paying attention, anyway, only to the sound of the door shutting, and then the warmth of Mary’s waist in his hands.

He fucks her on the table, so long and so hard he’s sure he’s near sober when they’re done - and when she asks, after, what he and Charles were drinking about, he has stock of himself enough not to lie. 

“You. And Anne,” he tells her, and she gives him a sad sort of smile, and nods, and does not wake him when she leaves for her rooms in the morning.

His head is pounding by the time he _does_ wake, and he does not think he can lay the blame at the beer.  
  


 

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

**KENNA DE POITIERS**

_NORTHERN ENGLAND, ON PROGRESS_

 

Kenna doesn’t enjoy England so much as her husband.

She thinks that, for Bash, it’s the wildness of it; the brazenness of the men - they are more bloodied than the youth of Francis’ former court, and especially Charles’ - they’re soldiers, they’re hardened. It’s a sense of himself he’s held for a long time, she knows, something that bonded him to Francis - a particularly sharp echo in his grief for his brother. He stays up many nights as they travel, drinking and talking with the men who gather in the hall of whatever estate they’ve come to.

It’s a culture she knows; Scotland was wilder still and the few years she had spent with her father and brother at the court of Marie de Guise while Mary was at convent had acclimated her to it - so it does not all _bother_ her, exactly; there’s an odd sense of homecoming to the rough accents, the priority of practicality above luxury. She doesn’t begrudge Bash the novelty of it; Lola is more comfortable here, too, and Mary is flourishing, at a distance from her grief and under the King's attentions. Kenna _is_ homesick, however, for the particular grace and fashion of France. The English King is a fashionable man himself, a lover of luxury and beautiful things - but Kenna still feels the small ache of it in the morning, in the moment she remembers she’s no longer at home.

She keeps it to herself, the best she can. After all, even Greer is doing well, heading Mary’s household more independently than she ever has before, and she wants them to enjoy it; her friends and their freedoms.

They are busy all the time, anyway. Seamlessly, amusements and games follow them across the country; there is feast after feast, endless celebration trailing the wedding tour. Kenna is relieved by it; by the people’s reception of their Queen - relieved even more at the King’s reception of her.

And Anne’s.

Kenna had been - _rightfully_ , she thought - _concerned_ about the influence of the other woman in her friend’s court; Diane had wielded her power over Henri unabashedly; in hindsight, Kenna was embarrassed to have been as enamoured by a man so easily bent, and to such a woman. She had been afraid it would be dangerous - the ruthlessness of the Boleyns was no secret, and a mistress with the power of blood and privilege behind her was far more threatening than a true, out-of-nothing upstart. Anne had resources; Anne had _conspirators_.

Kenna, however, should have known better - if only by virtue of knowing _Mary_. Her ability to win people to her side was unparalleled; both intimately and formally. It was a thing of true awe, to watch Mary become _Queen_ _Mary_ \- the shift in her body and shoulders, the lift of her chin, the broken-glass-razor edge that etched itself into every corner and cut of her features, dangerous and tempting.

It was a thing of _different_ awe to see it drop; and a matter of great importance to consider who it dropped before. Much to Kenna’s surprise - and to the surprise of anyone watching, she was sure, though she didn’t think anyone else really _was_ \- the first time Kenna sees her Queen let her guard down publicly at English court, she’s caught in conversation with Anne Boleyn.

They were simply passing each other - the endless, disorganized bustle of unfamiliar people in unfamiliar manors and camps allowed for much more freedom of interaction than the structures of court should have allowed - and Mary had stopped, half-gesturing for Anne’s attention and grinning, clearly pleased, when Anne had paused as well. Kenna and Greer had made idle conversation to offer a lie of privacy in the press of people - Kenna had half-listened to Mary asking after Anne’s experience on the progress, forcefully kind in her desire to push past any awkwardness and inquiring as to Anne’s sister and brother-in-law. The conversation was genuine, and friendly, and Mary had been in a brighter mood the rest of the day.

To Kenna, it becomes quickly clear that Mary is enraptured by her rival; in the slightest of moments, their rare public brushes - and Kenna thinks it’s Anne that takes the most care in not triangulating the court - but, when they are in the same space, even Kenna can feel it. They are hyper-aware of each other; across a room and sea of people, no words between them - Kenna hardly even sees them looking at each other, only after.

Kenna hasn’t brought it up again, however; Anne, that is, and she doesn’t think she’s going to; Mary would be honest when she was ready. Pushing her never did any of them _any_ good with their Queen, and her reaction the last time Kenna had tried had been more than enough proof of her suspicions - Kenna was absolutely right; Mary was _absolutely_ curious about Anne, in more ways than she knew how to admit.

The unnamed frustration appeared to have served her well, anyway; she had shared her bed with the King every night since the wedding, to the apparent pleasure and satisfaction of them both. Every morning without fail, Kenna, Greer and Lola came upon a sleepy and smiley Mary and swept bows to a departing King, clearly prideful and pleased with himself. Kenna’s sure he’d gone to Anne’s rooms instead of his own, some of those mornings; but it hardly mattered, so long as he kept coming back to Mary’s bed.

Kenna doesn’t think anyone else sees the conflict within their Queen; even Lola and Greer. It may be as much their duty as it is Kenna’s to know Mary’s secrets and mind like their own - but they had not _experienced_ it as Kenna had before. Neither had crossed that kind of line with a woman, before; neither, so far as Kenna knew - and she thought that she would _know_ , if they had - had ever even considered it. Their desires fell solely on men; and Kenna did not _begrudge_ them that, of course - but it was frustrating. It had been frustrating enough when they had been young girls and Kenna had been unsure of herself, unsure of her thoughts and why she _wanted_ things from her friends she was only supposed to want from the man she would eventually marry - kisses and touches she was teased with by the young, bawdy gentlemen of the Scottish court transferred instead to the touch of a girl; she had wondered after something lighter, sweeter.

Henri’s - _arrangement_ \- had not been Kenna’s first time with a woman. It had not even been her second - she had met another girl, who felt like her, _wondered_ like her - when she had been sent to the convent to accompany Mary. It had only been a half-year; then Greer had come instead, and then Mary had been alone until they met again in France - and in that half-year, Mary had known nothing of it; she knew nothing now. The only people who _did_ know were Henri and Bash - and they had, unsurprisingly, reacted entirely differently.

Henri had been interested, only, in the sexuality of it; in the presentation of it for _him_ , and how he could bend it to his own benefit.

Bash had been _curious_ \- but, far more, he had been curious as to Kenna’s affections. _Did you love the girl? D’you miss her?_

Kenna hadn’t thought of her in a long time - and the answer was no, not really. Not in an active, painful sort of way; she missed her with a quiet, personal nostalgia - the same way she missed herself as a girl, someone who existed now only in memory.

Kenna has edged her worries to her husband; discussed, sparsely, Mary's mood and demeanour between her husband and her husband's mistress; and Bash is no fool and he loves Mary, still, can see that she is tormented by something more than he knows. Despite his empathy, though, Kenna cannot outright discuss her speculations about Mary's feelings for Anne with Bash, just yet - it would be to betray Mary’s trust in a terrible way; it was one thing, to tell Mary’s secrets for the sake of her safety; but this was about her feelings, her heart, already broken too many times over. So Kenna is frustrated; because the only people she _can_  safely, discuss her concerns about Mary, and Anne, and Henry and the mess of it all _to_ \- are Lola and Greer; but she knows they will not understand. She knows they will balk, as they did at Kenna’s suggestions before any of it was real, yet; they will blush and laugh and press _away_ , and it will not be what Mary needs from them.

So, Kenna keeps her worries to herself - and she thinks that no one else could guess at anything besides a silently polite courtesy on either side of the King - even the King himself, she’s almost sure, believes himself blessed by good fortune in the simple lack of animosity between his wife and his mistress.

Between days on constant move, evenings of entertainment and nights with Mary or Bash, the first weeks of journey pass quickly, even in Kenna’s personal melancholy.

She finds an odd, dark sort of peace in her homesickness; accustoms to the quiet ache inside her chest. She does not care so much for the court, but finds, for once, a solace when she is alone - goes for walks in her spare moments, finds that, to her own surprise, she quite likes the countryside.

England is endlessly sprawling and green; there is rain, and it comes with a true, bone-deep chill - but it leaves the air fresh and lush and Kenna falls quickly for the crisp, clean taste of it. It’s what she’s doing this evening; enjoying the chill, the quiet. They are nearly a quarter through their progress, and King had retired to Mary’s room early, releasing them all from their duties. Lola and Greer find her in the garden of the estate; Kenna does not remember the name of it, nor the gentleman it belongs to, only that she had been _assured_ the progress was halfway to London.

They bring wine.

“John is asleep,” Lola starts, setting on the stone bench beside Kenna. Greer laughs, a rueful kind of snort. Undignified, she sits on the grass before them both, jug of wine at hand and offering them both cups.

“While the girls and Guillame do their best to do anything but,” she says, pouring.

“Bash is drinking,” Kenna offers, half-smiling. Lola laughs, pressing her wine to her lips.

“As are we.”

“The King is still with Mary?” Kenna asks, and Greer nods, quick, like she’d just checked.

“I did not think she would hold his attention so quickly, with Anne,” Lola muses, “Is it odd to say that I’m proud of her?”

“The King is desperate for a _legitimate_ heir, we all know. He and Anne have barely been together since the wedding.”

“Odd, though, that she is still with the court.”

Kenna hums at Lola’s words, shrugging.

“There’s been no rivalry. Does Mary want her dismissed?” Kenna asks; Greer shakes her head.

“I think she rather likes her, truthfully,” Greer says, “I worry she’s too nice sometimes, too -”

“Forgiving,” Lola finishes, and Greer nods. “Though the Boleyns are - very charming,” Lola goes on, thoughtful, and Kenna breaks into a laugh.

“Ah! You are spending _quite_ a bit of time with her brother, aren’t you - handsome man, what is it? John? Geoffrey?”

“George,” Lola corrects casually, offering a single-shouldered shrug. “He’s continued to offered his - companionship, some days, when the company is riding.”

“He’s a fine courtier, favoured by the King even before… their father is a Viscount and their mother is a Howard; wealthy, powerful,” Greer lists the important details by rote, but she does it through gritted teeth; Lola rolls her eyes.

“He’s brother to Mary’s natural rival, however friendly they may be. I enjoy his attention, innocently. He is opportunistic, ambitious - and everyone knows about John,” Lola gives, dismissive, so Kenna knows she _does_ like the man.

“Not married? Promised?” Kenna asks; Lola blushes, looks away.

“His father is trying to arrange something. He has not said it, but their prospects are stunted with the King’s marriage to Mary.”

“They’ll never be more than the family of the King’s mistress, whatever favour it may have gotten them,” Greer says, and Kenna thinks of her father’s letters, ordering her to renounce Henri, a monarch who would offer them nothing. At the very least, the King’s attentions on Anne had been lucrative for the Boleyns in title, land - but now they had revealed their suit of ambition to the entire world, and lost.

Kenna knew well the kind of humbling that came with that sort of defeat.

Looking to Lola, Kenna thinks of her friend’s own disownment, and the destruction of Kings and their appetites.

It’s quiet; they lull. As friends, they need to speak less together than they did before. Their solace with each other is no longer the gossip and giggling of girls, but the peace at the eye of the storm; the knowing, without explanation.

It’s why Kenna’s not surprised when Greer finally says, “You’ve been so many miles away, Kenna.”

“Are you in France?” Lola asks, and Kenna shakes her head, refilling her cup.

“The future,” she says; Lola hums, somewhere between laughing and thoughtful.

“Will you enlighten us?”

“That assumes I am enlightened,” Kenna gives, earning laughter from them both. She shrugs, then, idly reaches to trace the tip of her finger along the embroidery of Lola’s skirt, beside her on the bench. “I just want us all to be happy, finally. For peace,” she takes a breath, “I worry we’ve just found another selfish King, and our Queen is married to him.”

There’s a beat.

“That’s rather bleak,” Lola remarks, and Kenna gives a dry laugh.

“It’s the rain. It makes me think too much,” she admits, and Greer shakes her head.

“We have to worry. How could we not? It’s important. It’s protection,” Greer says, and the sun is nearly set, burning them all blue-purple, stars sparking in the dark.

They’ve spent so many nights together - giggling or drinking or laughing; dancing in their nightdresses and bursting feather-down pillows; crying, or talking. It’s been somewhere between too long, and never enough.

“But we can’t think the worst. Plan for it, but not wait for it. We must hope for the best, for all of us,” Greer goes on, grinning conspiratorially at them both. “Lola, enjoy the attentions of all the handsome English men, enjoy your peace with your son. Kenna, you and Bash carry the family favour of _three_ monarchs, climbing the peerage here as surely as you would have in France - myself, I shall build a home for all of us, and my husband, our children.”

It’s sweet, if practical. As always, Kenna is warmed by Greer’s optimistic sincerity; determinedly and faithfully cheerful.

“And we’ll all hope for Mary’s home, and her heart,” she finishes, simple.

“And her husband,” Lola adds.

 _And his whore_ , Kenna thinks, and hates herself for it. “At this rate, all our hope may be a moot point,” she says instead, smirking like she should be and gesturing pointedly in the direction of Mary’s rooms.

“To think, so much happiness relies on a man’s lust, the weight of the world on the shoulders of an infant who isn’t even expected yet,” Lola gives; Kenna thinks of Bash, and John, and how different so many things could be.

“And the determination of our Queen,” Greer says. Lola smiles, nods.

“Yes, so, success is inevitable.”  
  
  


**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

**ANNE BOLEYN**

_NORTHERN ENGLAND, ON PROGRESS_

 

Anne back-and-forths her decision -  _sober_ \- for the first weeks of travelling; her sister’s offer to depart with she and William stands, open and comforting, and Anne weighs her options as the date draws near.

For the most part, Anne avoids not only the Queen, but almost entirely any situation that would open her to speculation. It is surprisingly easy, in the chaos and busyness of their progress; and though she encounters Queen Mary a few times, in passing comment and polite, played conversation, Anne manages to spend the majority of her time in the comfortable companies of her siblings, or simply alone. It is an od relief, to feel free of the pressure to entertain, to _be_ the entertainment - she relegates herself to a fly-on-the-wall, and it’s a leisurely sort of way to partake in the court; or, more accurately, _spectate_.

Sometimes, though, Anne is as much a slave to old habits as any mortal. On this evening, they’ve already had dinner; but their hosts here are a young couple, a young man looking to impress his King - there is a party and a dance in the courtyard, and despite herself, Anne drifts towards the noise. She rounds the edge of it, the music and the people and the joy of it all; she means only to watch - she _means_ to be inconspicuous.

It’s impossible. Her presence starts a wave of murmurs - like a living thing, Anne watches the swell of it, a tide of turning bodies and bright eyes, curving the edge of the party to crash toward the royal dais, set just within the wide open doors of the Manor’s hall. 

She does not see exactly who tells Henry she’s there; Anne turns away before it can reach them, so she does not have to meet his eyes - _their_ eyes, though she feels the burn of their stares on her body.

Anne refuses to look up; refuses to seek confirmation that they _are_ looking at her, or acknowledge them - she has not had to face them both at once, yet, and following the crowd had been a bad idea.

Anne feels trapped; her heartbeat is in her throat and she _wants_ to see them, both of them - she wants to know how they look, standing beside each other; if they’re as well-matched as she’s imagined so many times over. If Mary is the picture of youth and fertility next to Henry’s striking prowess, if they are a couple of future and promise. She wants to know how they look, looking at _her_ ; if they are both staring of their own volition, or if the Queen is angry, watching her husband pine after another woman.

But - Anne _knows_ that feeling. She knows the sharp, uncomfortable twinge of envy-green eyes boring through the back of her head; she knows it from Katherine, and she knows it best juxtaposed to the hot, sweet, _red_ feeling of Henry’s stare, desire personified. This is no juxtaposition; she feels, as always, the magnetic _pull_ of the King, willing her to look at him, willing her to give up that _little_ bit of control she has over her feelings, her actions - and Anne knows that Mary is looking at her; but she feels, inexplicably and absolutely, that the Queen is _just_ as desperate for Anne to see her.

It’s a powerful realization. Anne’s not sure what it means; feels urgent and fevered, sharp and anxious in the edges of her joints. She can’t look - she knows that she can’t, for their sake or her own, and she feels paralyzed, pinned down and wishes she had not come here, wishes she had passed the party by and continued on to find her sister.

There’s nothing she can do about that now, though.

Anne takes a deep breath, the exhale broken and shaking in her chest.

She closes her eyes; inhales again, then opens them, finally turning to face the royal couple.

Henry’s body is turned almost entirely toward Anne in his chair, but he’s not looking at her, now, his attention pulled back by a servant - Mary is, though; and her eyes flick up from the subtle half-glance she’d been giving Anne to meet her directly, when Anne turns. Anne doesn’t think the eye contact is intentional; especially not when Mary’s eyes widen and dart away again, quick, her mouth pressing into a hard line.

Anne doesn’t look away, and it only lasts a beat, a second - a _year_ , that Mary’s refusing to meet her gaze, again - but then it’s there, a burn of gold-black eyes searching hers from across the room.

Mary’s cheeks are pinking, the flush creeping over her jaw, down her neck - Anne follows the line of it, and Mary is breathing harder than she should be, sitting still. The quick rise and fall of her chest is visible even at a distance; when Anne looks up to her face again, Mary’s head is tilting, just barely, one eyebrow arching like she’s _asking_ something. Her stare drops, unapologetically drawing the length of Anne’s body; Anne does not move, taking a single, slow breath when she deciphers the deliberation slowly etching into Mary's expression, like a realization of itself.

Anne doesn't think the words, she doesn't dare and has no chance, anyway - no sooner is the thought edging her mind than Mary is looking away. It’s a sudden movement, jerky, and the scrape of her chair is deafening to Anne, even against the open din of the court, which grinds to a halt in the unexpected rise of its Queen. Courtiers drop into curtseys and bows; Henry turns, surprise lighting across his face when he realizes Mary is no longer of a level with him and moving to stand alongside her, his head whipping back-and-forth between Anne and his wife so quickly it would be comical, if Anne weren’t so confused by the shutters closed on the Queen’s face, and the subsequent accusation knitting deep in Henry’s brow.

Visibly, the Queen dismisses two of her three ladies, leaving both her husband and half-brother clearly baffled in her wake. The blonde of the trio of women; the most senior of them, Anne believes, says something to the King, and then she and the other, darker blonde than the first, curtsey and disappear. Half the court is staring after the Queen, muttering under their breaths - the other half staring at Anne and muttering back, and Anne can feel their accusations and assumptions as clearly as she had felt Henry’s.

She can’t work through her own thoughts, here, under the glare of gossip and assumption - and Anne does not want to speak to the King, nor does she want to watch him decide _between_ staying to speak to her, or going after his wife. Anne starts to turn away once more, pressing her way back to the edge of the ocean of people, toward her lodgings - she manages only a few steps, and collides with a man.

“Forgive me, my Lord -” she starts, ducking back to drop into a curtsey; she’d been looking at her feet, she’d been trying to get _out_ , and isn’t even sure who she hit.

“Mistress Boleyn,” a hand gestures for her to rise, and Anne stumbles back a step in shock.

“Bash.”

She’d known he was here, of course - Catherine had told her, and she’d heard the mention of his name more than enough times since the Scots’ arrival at Berwick. It was always said in high spirits; he seemed to have become a well-liked and respected man, if not titled or wealthy, and Anne had smiled to herself with secret pride for the boy she’d once known.

It was something else, though, to be face-to-face with the man - _or_ , face to chest, with the height he had on her now.

Anne had not been close with Bash, Diane’s son, as she had been Catherine’s children. She had always thought of the boy more as Francis’ favourite companion than his brother, and her loyalty to Catherine had ensured she kept a walled distance between herself and anything, or anyone, associated with the King’s Mistress. Still, Anne had known him to be a polite, compassionate and intelligent boy, always playing protector to his siblings, and willingly enduring Catherine’s hate so long as he could stay with them. Standing before her now, Anne sees the same martyred benevolence carving the scarred and scruffy lines of his face. He’s not a boy, anymore, but Anne still has the unnerving sense she can _trust_ the man he’s become.

And as if it was not all confounding enough, his next words leave Anne dry-mouthed and dumbfounded.

“Don’t run. You don’t have to, and Mary would not want you to. Not for her sake.” 

She doesn’t know what to say, to that; she doesn’t know what to say to _him_ , and half the room is still staring at her, she’s sure - half the room and Henry, if he hasn’t run off after Mary yet.

“Dance with me,” Bash suggests, offering his hand. Anne gapes, looking between his open palm and his open expression, trying to find the latch of the trap.

Bash just shakes his head, smiles, and moves his hand down to catch his palm against the tips of Anne’s fingers. “If you want to leave, I’ll let you. But Mary doesn’t want you to hide,” he says, and Anne doesn’t know what to _make_ of that - _Mary doesn’t want you to hide. Not for her sake._ \- nor the way the Queen had been looking at her, or the offer before her, but she won’t make sense of it if she can’t _ask_ him about it, so she nods, and lets Bash lead her out to dance.

He is, as Anne has found with most well-trained swordsmen, surprisingly graceful. He leads comfortably, falling easily in with the other couples. Slowly, the stares melt away from them; even at the oddness of their pairing, Bash is easily confident and Anne allows herself to let it soothe her - especially once she sees the King, still in his seat with the Duke of Suffolk at his side.

She does not _want_ it to feel like she’s won something, that he’s still here. Anne does not want to be in competition with Mary - but, Henry’s presence is a balm to the flare of Anne’s anxiety at all the - _strangeness_ , as is the predictability of his eyes drifting back to her, always, like she is his anchor in the crowd. Between that, and the near-George-like sureness of Bash’s lead, Anne almost relaxes for the first time in weeks.

“You are in the service of the Queen of Scotland,” Anne remarks eventually, when Bash leads them from the dancing to sit, and drink. Still, Anne catches Henry watching her - but he does not stand, does not send word to her for her company, and Anne tries to bury the sting of offence - she's happy enough, anyway, for the change of pace in Bash’s presence, having been confined to such a small circle for so long.

He smiles, a serious and prideful sort of thing, nodding.

“Her Majesty has honoured me with the position as Head of her personal guard.”

“Impressive. You’re so young,” Anne gives, genuinely surprised. She had known the boy had become a soldier, and risen in the ranks of his brother’s service - but it was something else, to be in such a position to a monarch on the simple level of his own merit. “She must trust you irrefutably.”

Bash inclines his head, turning away from Anne to look towards the press of bodies and music. “It is a testament of her love to my late brother, and my wife,” he says, and Anne shakes her head, resisting the overly-familiar temptation to scold him.

“It is a testament to your ability, I’m sure. The Queen does not seem a woman to make such decisions lightly,” Anne says, and Bash shakes his head, smiling in an exasperated sort of way before turning to look at Anne.

“No. She’s not.”

He says it simply, and not unkindly. He means the words and Anne’s not sure what he means _by_ them, nor the curious sort of way his eyes are searching her face.

Anne looks away.

“You said she wouldn’t want me to hide. You know her well, clearly, and love her,” Anne gives - and means to continue, but catches a woman staring at her a slight distance away; staring at them both.

She meets Anne’s eyes and Anne recognizes her; the dark blonde Mary had dismissed - the woman with the feather in her hat, who had ridden up to Berwick alongside her Queen. “Who is that?” Anne asks, blurts, and Bash’s head swivels sideways, so the woman’s gaze slips towards him, instead.

She nods, just barely - and lifts her cup like a toast; then she’s turning away, turning to leave.

“My wife, Lady Kenna.”

“She did not look pleased, Bash. You ought to go to her,” Anne tells him, shifting to stand, and Bash shakes his head.

“She asked me to stop you from leaving,” he explains, and Anne stops, the spin of her thoughts making her lightheaded.

“ _Why?_ ” It’s sharper than it needs to be, but Anne is _tired_ of this, of this strange _game_ being played. She does not understand it and she does not _want_ to; she wants to be left to her own devices, wants to be left alone with Henry - wants to be left _alone_ , if she cannot have him.

Bash blinks, _stares_ , silent and a beat too long - Anne stands, and she’s _determined_ to leave, but nearly collides with him again.

“Lord de Poitiers -”

“Because she knows and loves Queen Mary far better than I,” he tells her levelly, ducking his head to face Anne square.

Anne does not know what to _say_ to that.

“What does Mary _want_ ?” She hisses, rude and impatient and she cannot _do_ this, dedicate anymore of herself to interpreting the whims and wills of yet another monarch.

“She wants to be in France,” Bash says shortly, a snap under his breath. “She wants to save everyone around her from the heartache she has had to endure. Yourself included, Lady Boleyn,” he takes a breath, looking past her, towards the dais, and then meeting her eyes hard once more. “She wants you to have her husband, tonight; to yourself, without fear of retribution,” he finishes, and then he is offering a tense bow and walking away, leaving Anne exactly where she had been in the first place; alone, trying not to look at Henry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for a little renaissance-era gay panic, guys. also for ref, im picturin george as penn badgley-esque, i have since the other boleyn girl and will not give it up. all sex scenes will be written with that in mind. //ev out
> 
> follow me on https://www.instagram.com/ajar.ofgoodthings/ for updates & expect a the next chap asap, i'm sorry for flaggin' guys. i promise i'm not going anywhere. all comments & feedback always welcome, on insta and here!! 
> 
> much love, Xx.


	7. bloodletting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why d’you care so much, Mary?” Henry asks rudely, the question a sharp occurrence. He turns away from her as he asks it, moving to pour himself a drink without offering her one. “What d’you want with Anne?"
> 
> Anne is leaving. She has not left him since he’d told her he’d decided to take Katherine’s deal - and then she had gone without warning or word to him, she had not even gone to Hever first, he knew; somewhere else, somewhere he wouldn’t have found her so fast. This was entirely different; she had taken her time to make a decision - and Henry loved Anne, but she was not a calm, rational sort of woman - she was impulsive, fierce and fiery; she made choices at the drop of a hat and with the surge of her feelings and it was a drive of his love for her, the passion with which she approached her life on all sides.
> 
> But she was being logical about this - dispassionate, detached, and Henry didn’t know what to do with that. Anne was always intelligent, but not so - removed , not so emotionless.
> 
> He worried that they had finally broken some part of Anne, in this. That he had broken something in Anne. Something in her love, in her soul - somewhere he could not reach her anymore.

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

**BLOODLETTING**

**JULY, 1527** ****

**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

 **MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS  
** _NORTHERN ENGLAND, ON PROGRESS_ ****

Mary pleads indisposition to the King, and then, for the first time in a very long time - she runs away.

She had not expected Anne to make a public appearance, like that; and, based on Anne’s own reaction to the situation Mary thought that she had probably _also_ not expected to do so. Her presence was as immediately captivating as that of any royal; Mary had seen her the moment she’d entered the courtyard, and then staunchly done her best to ignore the drift of her around the edges of the space.

Henry’s reaction was impossible to ignore, though; someone had leant to his ear, spoken, and his entire body had stiffened and shifted; he’d redirected _completely_ , facing Anne straight on, and Mary did not even think he was _aware_ of it.

The court certainly was; anyone who hadn’t already seen Anne did, then, and Mary had drained the last of her wine to avoid staring at the back of the woman’s head.

It had not been very effective; the rush of heat in her stomach and face had surely been visible on her face when Anne had seen her; when Anne had seen her _stare_ , and - and Mary wasn’t sure what she saw looking back at her.

It was a moment of ridiculous courage; it was a moment of ridiculous foolishness. Anne was stunning, entrancingly beautiful - Mary could not burn the image of her from the inside of her eyes.

Her dress had been fine, but clearly not intended for a party - a deep green silk, the corset embroidered in blue flowers and cut square at her chest. She wore the same ‘B’ and pearl-drop necklace she had worn the first time Mary met her, and every time Mary had seen her since; Mary had seen the glint of earrings at a distance, and her hair was done up simply, decorated with a bright band of diamond and gold.

It was simple, and gorgeous, and Mary could not have cared less about her clothing; had found herself looking instead at the long, delicate line of Anne’s neck, turning to the jut of her collarbone - Mary had been practically _lecherous_ , staring at press of her breasts to the confines of her dress with every breath, and the sharp, tapered line of her waist.

She _wants_ Anne.

It had occurred to her with sudden, sharp clarity - it had occurred to her _painfully_ , a shattering of glass in the center of her chest. She _wants_ Anne. Mary wants to _have_ Anne and she doesn’t know what that _means_ or _how_ , exactly, nor precisely what it is that she wants - she just knows she has to leave, so she does.

She does not want the King to follow her; she sends the message with as much kindness as she can, having Greer speak to him and explain that Mary is unwell, that she wants him to spend the night with Anne.

She hopes he takes it genuinely; Mary _means_ it genuinely, but finds Henry to be like a rat in a trap when it comes to his mistress. He eyes Mary like one might a starved dog, prone to attack without warning, when they discuss her - and Mary finds _that_ far more infuriating than anything else about Anne. She hopes they _both_ take it with sincerity, as she rushes through the halls of the unfamiliar castle to her rooms, barely acknowledging the bows she’s met with along the way.

Mary knows she’s made a scene; and she knows she’ll make it worse, if she’s not alone, soon. The panic is rising in her chest as sure and ominously as a thunderstorm; and Mary can control herself, Mary has _always_ controlled herself, but even as she insists to herself that she _must_ keep it together, she can feel the burn of tears on her cheeks.

Mary wipes her fingers across her eyes and glances back; Lola is following barely a pace and a half behind, and does not meet Mary’s eyes - Mary knows she can see her looking, but her lady determinedly ignores her, and Mary appreciates it.

It is a lie of privacy. It’s why she picked Lola to come with her - Mary loves her friends, but Greer and Kenna both push her too hard, sometimes, with the best of intentions. Lola simply lets her be - and, Lola is the most likely to tell Mary the truth, without a sugarcoat across her words.

They turn into Mary’s rooms; Lola dismisses the servants, but when Mary turns around, her friend is still standing there.

She doesn’t look expectant; she doesn’t even seem all that _worried_ , and Mary appreciates that, too, particularly when she _can’t_ ignore it anymore, the scorch of uncertainty scalding her ribs.

The break of her sob is a sudden, loud thing, even to herself - Mary feels the crack of it in her spine and drops to a chair, halving herself over her legs. She tries to muffle the sound against her hands, echoing it in the confines of her torso to her thighs; and it’s _painful_ , a wrack of her body like a whip cracking her skin - Mary _hurts_.

She hurts for everything. She hurts for the terrible, dangerous uncertainty of it all - of her isolation in this marriage, spending every night with Henry inside her, wrapped in his arms while knowing nothing of each other, distant in everything they are as people. Mary does not know him; the thrill of his strangeness has faded into an odd, hollow sort of ache for the distance - she does not expect his heart, but she does expect his confidence, and Mary can feel the stone walls she walks around with him as sure she can feel it when he fucks her. She does not know how to earn his trust when he will not give her the chance; and it makes her hurt for Francis, for the easiness of them - for the trust. If Francis were alive, she could talk to him about it all; he had not only been her husband, but her childhood companion, her _best_ friend. Mary had told him everything, the things she was afraid of and the things she wanted most, as a Queen and a woman and a girl. Mary would be able to tell him of this; of her bewilderment and burn over Anne - she would tell him and he would smile at her and tell her it was all right, and he loved her, and he would want to understand; he would want to help _her_ understand.

Mary does not know how long she cries for; longer than she has in a long time, she thinks, and eventually Lola is rubbing her back, pulling her hair out of her face and trying to help her sit up, trying to help Mary breathe.

When she finally calms down, she feels empty and numb, and Mary blinks blankly at Lola, crouching before her.

“D’you want to tell me?” Lola asks, sincere and soft and Mary knows the question comes without pressure.

She does not know _what_ to tell her. She does not know where to start, with this; she does not know the words. Mary shakes her head.

“No.”

Lola considers her a moment longer, then nods, standing.

“Would you like to get ready for bed?” She asks then, and Mary nods, taking the hand Lola offers.

Her head rushes, when she stands; a blur of black of fuzz ringing the edges of her vision until it’s all she can see, and Mary feels light and _wrong_ , feels the stumble of herself forward in the momentary blindness.

Lola’s arm grabs her around the middle, and Mary reaches blindly to catch the end of the chair.

When her vision comes back, the roar of blood dying in her ears, Mary realizes she’s panting.

She takes a slow, single breath through her nose, closing her eyes as Lola’s grip loosens.

“Are you okay, Mary?” She asks, tone lilting with worry, and Mary forces herself to meet her friend’s eyes.

There’s no swimming, this time, and no black; the rush fades as quickly as it had come and Mary nods.

“Yes, I think I just stood too quickly,” she gives, and Lola’s brow knits, eyes narrowing sharply and flickering over Mary’s face.

“All right,” she says eventually, so Mary knows Lola doesn’t believe her, and Mary is suddenly exhausted, eyes the bed longingly over Lola’s shoulder.

Lola glances behind her, then back, eyebrow arched. She laughs, but it doesn’t sound _real_ , and gestures for Mary to lead the way to her vanity.

Mary does her best not to look in the mirror as she changes, and her ladies let her sleep late the next day.

  
  
  
**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

 **HENRY VIII, KING OF ENGLAND  
** _NORTHERN ENGLAND, ON PROGRESS_  
 ****

Mary is talking to him about - _something_.

It’s important, Henry knows; it’s something about the coronation and he _should_ be paying attention, but he can’t _hear_ her, past the roar of his own anger in his ears.

Anne is leaving him. Leaving _them_.

“I’d like Lady de Poitiers to take lead planning the party and entertainment, afterwards -”

“Yes, all right,” Henry gives, waving a hand to dismiss the question, to make her _shutup_. “Whatever you’d like, Mary,” he goes on, standing and beginning to untie his robe. “Let’s go to bed,” he tells her, turning to start towards the bed himself, shedding the robe. He’ll do his duty by her and make some excuse, retreat to his rooms and take comfort sulking in isolation. And drinking. Oh, there’ll be drinking.

He pulls back the blankets of the bed, then catches his fingers under the collar of his nightshirt, tugging it up, over his head and dropping it to the floor.

Looking up, he sees Mary has not come to him, or the far side of the bed - and Henry turns, naked, to find her standing where she’d been before. She tilts her head.

“You’re angry,” she says; not asks - an assessment, not a question. Henry blinks. “You’re angry with me?” Mary elaborates, _now_ a question, and Henry sighs, grabbing his robe from the end of the bed and wrapping it back around himself.

“Yes,” there’s no use lying to this woman, he knows, particularly like this, particularly when they are together _as_ this - he will not lie to her because she will know, and then she will not lie _with_ him, and that’s the point of it all. It’s the point of all his pain and all of Anne’s sacrifice, it’s why he’d forsaken his first wife and his daughter; _Mary_ is the point of it all, so he will not lie to her. “Yes, I am angry with you. I am angry with you, and with Anne, who is leaving for her family home with her sister and brother-in-law by the end of the week,” he explains, sharp and short and he does not look at her, crosses his arms over his chest and paces the length of the room.

Mary takes a short, punctuated inhale. Henry closes his eyes, turning on his heel for another lap.

“That was never my intention,” Mary says quietly, and Henry doesn’t say anything to her, because he doesn’t _believe_ her - it just doesn’t make _sense_.

It was always _any_ of their intentions, women - playing games of cat-and-mouse against each other to try and play him. He had thought he’d gotten lucky, somehow; that God had denied him his soulmate in marriage but given him a wife who would not protest her - who might make room for her, even, in their home.

Instead, Henry had received a wife so well-versed in these games of girl and boy that he had not even _seen_ what she was doing; being nice and sweet, open and easy, so as to manipulate Anne’s conscience and guilt against her.

 _‘This is too painful, Henry, and she’s so -_ **_kind_** _. It would be easier, if she hated me. I can’t do this to us.’_

“Your Majesty, please,” Mary says softly, and Henry stops only out of surprise - she does not address him by his title when they are alone, ever. She refutes the propriety of her position insisting upon her first name, and defers the same to he and anyone else she considers in her confidence - and it had bothered him irrefutably at the beginning; it still bothers him now, usually, but it’s _wrong_ to hear the echo of distance in decorum within the walls of her rooms, and Henry pauses on his heel, lifting his head to look at her.

Mary has not moved, has her arms tucked around herself and her robe pulled tighter, like she’s cold. It’s the heavy robe, too, and she had barely touched their supper that night.

Maybe her scene the night before had not _been_ a scene; maybe she _is_ ill.

“I never meant for the Lady Boleyn to leave,” she says, insistent and solid and eyes bright, searching on his. Henry says nothing. “Has she taken offence to something I've done?”

No. _No_ , she hasn’t taken offence, and he wishes that she would. Anne has nothing to fight for, here; she has no one to fight against. Mary is not competition; she’s a self-proclaimed consolation prize and Henry _understands_ , standing here and staring at her now - she’s just so goddamned _good_ , she just _means_ it, so much.

He can’t _make_ himself hate her - and Anne has always had a far better heart than he.

“No. She wants us to have the summer to ourselves,” he explains, letting the fight fall from his shoulders. He has no one to fight against, either; Mary’s not going to rise to an argument when she’s done nothing to be defended. To accuse her of being overzealous in her acceptance of his mistress would be to look a gift-horse in the mouth, regardless of the result.

 _Still_.

“You did not _try_ to make her feel guilty?” Henry asks, honestly, because he will know if she’s lying, and Mary blinks at him, shaking her head slowly.

“No, Henry,” she tells him, and crosses past him to sit on the edge of her bed, _their_ bed. She looks small, like this; she looks young. She looks her _age_ \- not a Queen, but a girl, confused and sad and Henry can _see_ that, that she’s upset about this. She's confused, too, and dejected - she _truly_ doesn’t want Anne to leave. “When we - when I met her, at Berwick, I explained my purpose here was political,” she lets out a breath, her hands tucked in her lap as she sits up and meets his eye again. “I told her I knew you were hers, and I would not try to change that.”

A month had passed, but Anne had never revealed to him the details of her conversation with the Queen - she had smiled, laughed and shrugged when Henry had told her what Mary had said about it, and then explained nothing.

It was Henry’s fate to be forever surrounded by beautiful, infuriating women.

“Why d’you care so much, Mary?” Henry asks rudely, the question a sharp occurrence. He turns away from her as he asks it, moving to pour himself a drink without offering her one. “What d’you want with Anne?"

He hears her sigh and grimaces, jaw locking as he drains his drink.

He refills the cup without turning around.

Anne is _leaving_. She has not left him since he’d told her he’d decided to take Katherine’s deal - and then she had gone without warning or word to him, she had not even gone to Hever first, he knew; somewhere else, somewhere he wouldn’t have found her so fast. This was entirely different; she had taken her time to make a decision - and Henry loved Anne, but she was not a calm, rational sort of woman - she was impulsive, fierce and fiery; she made choices at the drop of a hat and with the surge of her feelings and it was a drive of his love for her, the passion with which she approached her life on all sides.

But she was being _logical_ about this - dispassionate, detached, and Henry didn’t know what to do with that. Anne was always intelligent, but not so - _removed_ , not so emotionless.

He worried that they had finally broken some part of Anne, in this. That _he_ had broken something in Anne. Something in her love, in her soul - somewhere he could not reach her anymore.

Finally, Mary speaks.

“I - want us to be friends. I _need_ us to be friends, if we’re to be a family.”

She says it simply enough. _Honestly_ enough.

Henry does not know what it means.

“ _We_?” He asks, turning around. Mary is watching him levelly, lips pursed as she gauges him.

Henry hates being assessed like this; judged, as a child prone to tantrum. He rolls his eyes, jaw locking.

“Our children will be siblings. Brothers and sisters - I would rather have them love each other as a family than hate each other out of some loyalty to their mothers,” Mary explains, and she _means_ it - Henry can see that she’s speaking plainly, honestly, and she shrugs the words away as though they’re nothing.

“You trust your brother,” Henry says - not a question; he doesn’t _need_ to ask. Mary clearly trusts the Earl of Moray - not so much as she trusts the damned French bastard, but he is still a near constant at his half-sister’s side. Even now, Mary nods.

“He is a decade older than me, and I only knew him as a girl, but I do not feel I’ve ever _un_ -known him, and when my mother died he was the only person I trusted not to try and usurp me, if given the Regency,” she explains it simply; a series of events and problems with simple solutions - but Henry is struck.

He often is, by the things she says in passing - her life was forever threatened, and she had no choice but to trust those most likely to lead her to her death. She had no choice but to go on trusting them, now; to run her country, to _not_ run amok with the power she has allowed them, practically handing off the axe hung above her neck.

Henry decides, in that moment, that they will return to Scotland for her, for at least a year, when their first son is old enough.

“Henry, I need you to trust me,” Mary starts, and she’s coming forward and her hands are catching up in his, her thumbs pressing over the backs of his knuckles. She’s looking at him squarely, unwavering and unrelenting; he cannot help but stare back at her, he cannot help but search the warmth of her eyes for a lie, for calculation.

He can’t find any.

  
  
  
**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
**

**JAMES STUART, EARL OF MORAY  
** _ENGLAND, ON PROGRESS_

 

These days, the best part of James’ days are the end of them.

He is tired, and homesick. He does not like his new brother-in-law, and he hates being among the English.

Most of the King’s court is as young as he, but there are a few grizzled hold-overs from Henry VII’s days, and James cannot help how he _seethes_ at the sight of them, unable to help wondering if they were there when James' father was killed.

The current King had not been at the battle, James knows; he had been standing as Regent in London while his own father met James’ on the border. That did not make James less angry, now.

He remembered when their father had died; Mary had only just been born, and James was eleven, hovering underfoot amongst the chaos following the Princess’ birth. She was not what had been hoped for; her elder brothers, James’ half-brothers, had both died before they were five - and Mary was just a girl, and had not looked likely to live, at birth, feeble little thing that she was.

James, of course, was a bastard. He was his father’s favourite bastard, but a bastard nonetheless; while Mary’s mother, Marie de Guise, had accepted he and his own mother’s presence at court, James had long knoen that he would always come after his father’s legitimate children, even the girls.

 _He_ had not thought Mary looked sickly; she was tiny, but all babies were tiny. She was very quiet for a baby, he’d thought; very _serious,_  would lie there staring at him with giant, curious eyes, though Queen Marie insisted the baby could not see him yet.

James had been there, in the room, making faces at the baby to try and make her smile and _prove_ that she could see him, when half the nobility had burst through the doors of the Queen’s rooms, and fallen to their knees before the bassinet.

For a wild, horrible, _wonderful_ moment, James had thought they were bowing to him.

Until the words met his ears, _God Bless the Queen_ , and it had all come crashing down.

James did not blame his little sister for her choices.

He _understood_. He had had his own recommendations for Mary’s next husband - all good, Scottish men that James knew personally, and trusted; but Mary did not - and secretly, James thought she would have avoided marrying into her own nobility even without the Pope’s alternative offer. She did not want a power-hungry husband, a man of ambition intending to usurp her - and James _had_ to understand that. He knew exactly the sort of risk she was at, all the time; again and again, men had hinted and tried to convince _him_ to usurp her, himself.

He had considered it.

James did not think any true, flawed, sinful human being could _not_. Mary had been far away, unlikely to ever return, and James had already been all but King; all but King, and sick of seeing the people of his faith suffer.

He could have become Scotland’s first Protestant King; he had decided instead to secure and support his sister, Scotland’s first Queen - James does not regret it, but he _does_ want to go home.

He won’t be leaving for weeks yet, though, and so the closest thing is Lady Castleroy’s rooms.

Their routine had started slowly.

Originally, it was simply a matter of their orbit around Mary’s - Greer cared for all of Mary’s domestic needs, and James her political. They came together when it came to finances and pre-planning; travel, the wedding, the coronation - the workload had been nearly insurmountable, when they’d started. But that was months ago; months of nights spent unslept, huddled together over parchment and ink and numbers, planning seating and schedules and events, restructuring Mary’s household and court for its settlement in London.

Now, they talk.

James arrives a few hours after dark; most of the castle is asleep, and his eyes are burning at the edges from staring at notes by firelight for far too long. The guards stationed at the end of the wing of the ladies’ quarters know James’ pattern, by now, and just nod at him as he passes by, reaching Greer’s door and rapping his knuckles in a short, three-burst pattern before slipping in.

He collides with her almost immediately; she walks face-first into his chest and stumbles back, and James manages to grab her by the arm with one hand and steady the flask of wine in his other against his chest, without spilling or breaking anyone or anything.

Greer catches her breath, catches herself, then looks at him and laughs.

“I was going to check on the children,” she says, and James grins, setting the wine down and nodding. “Are you all right?”

“Are _you_ all right?” He shoots back, pulling the door open properly, now, for her to step into the hall.

He is still dressed, but Greer is ready for bed, her hair a golden, mussed cloud down her back. She wears the same heavy, fur-lined bedrobe she does every night and goes barefoot for the short walk down the hall, and James follows her diligently, ignoring the grins from the guards as they pass again.

They are doing nothing _wrong_. They have never done anything, at all. Greer has become the closest of James’ friends, all while maintaining a polite, proper distance - and he has never complained.

At first, James did not particularly _like_ Greer. She was serious and bossy, and he did not like taking orders from a girl he remembered as a gap-toothed, too-loud eight year old, no matter her position. Of course, it had taken James less than a fortnight to realize that Greer was almost always _right_ \- when it came to everyone's wellbeing but her own.

“How are the children?” James asks softly as they come to the nursery door - the question is a surefire way to get Greer smiling at him; she glows, always, somewhere between pride and satisfaction when she speaks of her stepchildren.

“Wonderful. Gemma is practically walking on air, with all the parties and excitement. A boy asked her to dance, tonight,” Greer says, shaking her head a little. “I let her go, but I’m glad I did not recognize him, he must belong here - so he will be a problem that _stays_ here,” she explains, and James grins back, nodding his understanding. “Angeline and Guillame are determined to be on horseback, the next time we set out - they’ve made some sort of bargain with George Boleyn, after all the riding John’s done with him.”

James grimaces, but says nothing as Greer presses open the nursery door.

The room is dark; the fire is only embers, and it takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the shadows - but sure enough, James can find the figures of the children; Gemma and Angeline in a bed shared, John and Guillame in another, and the baby’s bassinet at the end of the girl’s bed.

It’s quiet. Five breaths in tandem to each other; James watches Greer as she listens, then steps back, pulling the door shut behind them.

“I don’t like it, either. But Lola insists he’s genuine enough, if not any sort of trustworthy - and it would be nice, to have them off my hands for a few hours,” Greer explains, shrugging with her admission.

James has noticed the friendship developing between Lola and Boleyn - and he’s made his own personal feelings clear, determinedly, to Mary, about _all_ of the Boleyns. He, for one, was relieved that the Boleyn witch had ridden off with her equally scandalous sister, he thought _none_ of Mary's party should be consorting with any of Boleyns - Mary’s attempted peace treaty with Anne was absurd enough, but for her ladies to befriend the woman’s relatives? James did not understand what his sister was playing at, here, and he did not like his new brother-in-law, either; he thought the English King to be spoilt and foolish and easily lead; most pointedly by the woman said to have bewitched him. It was silly, and stupid, to put any sort of trust in any of them; and James had _told_ Mary that.

 _‘Silly of you, James, to think that any of us trust anyone, anymore_ ,’ she had told him in return, and it had been as definitive a dismissal as anything else, and James had walked out without understanding.

Sometimes, he did not think he knew the woman his sister had become, at all.

“I could take them riding,” James offers as they near her rooms again, and Greer gives him a long-suffering sidelong look, shaking her head.

“Have you ever ridden with a child before?” She asks, arching an eyebrow. James opens the doors to her rooms and they step in; the door closes - they’re alone, finally. “And how do you think that would look?”

James shrugs.

He doesn’t think it will _look_ like anything - they are friends, obvious friends. The guards grin and gawk all they may like but they’re loyal to Mary, first, making them loyal to Greer and James in close second - and they are doing _nothing_. Any of the guards could attest to that; any of Mary’s other ladies, knowing of James’ nighttime visits, could attest to that.

Well, perhaps not anymore. James is not sure they know he’s _still_ coming to Greer, now so much of the work is done - but, the point stands regardless. There’s nothing for anything to look like except exactly what it is; he and Greer are friends, as they have always been.

“I am the Queen’s brother, she loves your children. It would look like nothing,” he explains, shrugging again. Greer rolls her eyes, sighing and walking away from him.

They’ve had this argument before.

“I’m not doing this again, James.”

“Not doing what?”

“ _Stop_ it. You know _exactly_ how it looks, especially with Aloysius in Italy. Rose draws enough attention by herself, I cannot put us all under _more_ scrutiny.”

She truly is _not_ doing this again; James can hear it in her tone, hard and icy and _quiet_. She’s not raising her voice; she’s making him listen to her, and he respects her for it. James nods.

“D’you want me to go?” He asks, half-turning back to the door, gesturing for it. Greer turns, a whirl back to him, and stops.

He will not push her. He will not push _himself_ ; he knows only some of what Greer has been through - and he knows it is only _some_ only because he can see it on her, the hollow ache of long-suffered sadness; the stone spine of a person whom has had no one to rely on or be loved by but themselves, and came out stronger on the other side of it all. James is not entirely sure what it is that he feels for Greer, nor how exactly he’s _supposed_ to feel it - but he knows that, regardless of what he wants, he will not risk her heart or reputation for the sake of his own selfishness.

“No,” she looks away from him, moves to sit before the fire. “Of course not,” she adds, under her breath, almost a scold. James smirks.

He grabs the wine and crosses to join her; he pours in silence, watching the wine hit the cup and watching her watch the fire.

Greer is a very simple, warm sort of beautiful.

Her expression is always open; her heart always plays across her face, even when she does not want it to, and James has heard some call her plain, before - once upon a time he may have even agreed, but he’d been nothing but stupid and blind, then. Greer is anything _but_ plain; she’s a complexion of honey-gold-flame, fierce and soft all at once; as James watches her, she smiles, lost in her thoughts and the flicker of the fire before her.

James reaches forward, offering her the cup.

“What are you thinking of?”

“Just something Lola said to me,” she says, looking at him again as she takes it. Her eyes narrow; just enough to show him she’s focusing on him, on this. There’s a tangible difference in Greer, when she’s present and when she’s not - when her thoughts are off somewhere else, clouded and distant, or when she’s _right there_ , right here, looking at him like it’s the only place she wants to be. “It doesn’t matter, yet. How was your day? I saw you looking unhappy, with His Grace, Cardinal Wolsey,” she gives, a barely-there tease taunting the corner of her mouth. James sighs, a scoff of a laugh as he shrugs forward. He sets his elbows to his knees, hanging his head with a groan.

“God forgive me, I truly hate that man,” he says. Greer laughs. It sounds like sunlight.  
  
  


**XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 

**MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS  
** _ENGLAND, ON PROGRESS_ **  
**

 

In the wake of Anne’s absence, in the wake of her strange, longing _confusion_ over Anne’s absence, Mary throws herself into her marriage, and her new country. After all, she will not feel less lonely, less _unknown_ , if she does not try to know them.

She feels it is her fault, Anne left - she knows the King blames her as well, but he also blames himself and Mary supposes there was plenty of damage done between them before she arrived, no matter how much of it still had to do with her. She has nothing to feel guilty for, she knows; her friends have insisted upon it. _She_ is Henry's lawful wife - she is his Queen; Anne _should_ defer to her. Anne should not have been there in the first place. Mary had come to accept that she was  _happy_ Anne had been there, at Berwick, no matter the perceived political insult of her presence - Mary was glad they had met on terms neither were particularly comfortable with, in a  _place_ neither of them were particularly comfortable with. It felt more even; more right, than to stand on formality - and she was glad she had met Anne, regardless of anything else. Anne is gone, though, and Mary does her best to bury her confusion and desire back where it had lived before, untouched and unknown to her.

The King is still moody, and particularly melancholy after Anne and the Careys leave them - but he stays soft to Mary; or tries, clearly, dutifully attentive, if not exactly engaged. It’s isolating, but Mary does not begrudge him the distance; they are still strangers, to one another - and though she misses Anne; or misses the thought of her, the faux-weight of the knowledge of her proximity - she appreciates the chance to get to know her husband like this, both their focuses singular upon each other, despite the ghosts in their head.

Aside from, or perhaps alongside the King and his Mistress, England is beautiful. Mary’s mornings start at her window, wrapped tight in furs and watching the sun rising gold over endless swathes of green and yellow fields - rarely does Henry unearth himself from the warmth of her blankets and bed to join her, but she catches him watching her, half-asleep, more than once, smiling groggily, hair mussed in such a way that makes him look much the handsome boy she’s heard him described as so many times, rather than the sophisticated man she’s come to know. Most times, he has her again on those mornings; they close the curtains of the bed and ignore the quiet sounds of the lowest servants moving about the room, focused on each other, the press of skin, and their purpose.

It is easy to lose herself in his body as it is in the loveliness of the land. It is a brighter green than the dense, mysterious darkness of Mary’s Scotland; she cannot feel the hidden magic moving in this land, but it is fertile and wealthy and its people are open-faced and kind, crowding in masses at the road to doff their caps and bow. They come out to see their well-loved Queen Katherine’s replacement, and Mary does her best not to react to the occasional call for her predecessor, not let her face turn at the rare disapproving shout. So far, the people of England are pleased; they look upon the royal couple at the head of a grand procession, the united crowns of England and Scotland personified in the firm, prosperous peace of Henry’s reign and his family’s name, and the legacy and future promised by Mary, a young Queen riding in her own right alongside their long-loved golden Prince Harry, his sins of love and lust forgiven with a single act by Katherine.

She spends the summer learning the land of her new country, the personalities of its people, the sway of its loyalties - and Mary focuses a whole half of herself on Henry, on learning of her husband and of his family; his children, the things that have made him the man he is now.

“Tell me of your daughter,” Mary says one night, slowly rising from the warmth of her husband and bed. He had brought wine and biscuits tonight, flaky and fresh, and Mary is intent on them, warm and hungry from their lovemaking.

“The Princess?” He asks, tone touching confusion and when Mary half-turns to him, she finds his eyebrow arched quizzically. It’s a question to another - she could ask after it, after if he has _other_ daughters, but she’s already heard the rumours of Mary Boleyn’s children - she need not try and force Henry into a confession over them. Mary nods, draping her warmest blue velvet robe over her shoulders to cover herself before she starts in on the biscuits, pouring wine for them both. 

“I am told she is a credit to Your Majesty, but I know it will take time to know her past the veneer of formality, once we meet. I would like to know of her - enough to find common ground, endear her to me. I should like for her to find a friend in me, if it pleases you.”

He listens quietly, shifting to sit up in bed and watch her. His arms fit behind his head in the comfortable stretch of a satisfied King, enjoying what is his; enjoying Mary, hair a mess at his hands, flushed and nearly naked, determinedly working her way through starved bites.

“What is your Princess like?” Mary prompts, pushes, balancing the stems of both cups between the fingers of one hand and carrying the plate with the other.

Henry hesitates; his brow knits, gaze flicking from Mary to his cup, the offered food.

There’s a beat, an awful moment, where Mary thinks he must not know the Princess at all; only a girl, after all. Only a daughter, and Mary may have just lead him directly to the turn of his mood.

Then he speaks.

“I have not seen her in a couple of years,” he admits slowly, quietly. “Not since she has been at Ludlow, not since -”

He breaks off, and Mary wonders; since Anne? Since Katherine had disappointed him?

She does not ask.

“She’s a delicate, pretty thing. She was always small. Sickly, when she was younger - but, intelligent. She excels in her studies; her tutors report often and I know much of it is flattery, but she is truly a most precocious child. She loves languages, has been writing letters to me in her own hand for a long time; in French, Spanish, Latin. She has started learning Welsh. In all of these she has always been a dutiful daughter and Princess - though she has a temper, and I fear sometimes I spoiled her as my only child - but she is quick, and has wit beyond her years. I often do not reproach her complaints of her Governess or tutors for they are so well-phrased they make me laugh; and most often she is right.”

His words pick up pace as he speaks; jumbling together like he is rushing to get them out. His love and pride for his daughter are clear, Mary thinks; but also clearly complicated. The confirmation of his care for her is all Mary needs for her next question.

“I had wondered, husband - if the Princess Mary may remain with us at court, through the Christmas season?”

It’s a gamble. Mary knows the reminder the Princess presses, like a thorn, to her father’s conscience; she makes him think of Katherine, Mary expects she makes him think of many could-have-beens, and the son he does not have.

But she wants to know the girl. She would not, would never, think to replace her mother; but Mary knows she can be a guide to the Princess, a confidante.

“Truly?"

Henry asks like he’s surprised; hesitant, like he expects a trap. Mary does her best to keep her expression open, honest, smiling at him and nodding.

“Truly. I should like to know her, and she should know me, if we are to be a family.”

It’s the right note to hit, she thinks; he breaks into a grin, leaning forward to kiss her - messy, with a laugh, his hand catching the back of her head, his tongue tart with the wine.

“You are right, little wife,” he tells her, kissing her cheek, her jaw, her neck. Mary laughs, somewhere between a sigh and a giggle. “A family court it shall be. A family Christmastide,” his lips are at her collar, now; fingers tugging her robe apart. Mary unties the knot of it, letting it fall, and lets Henry pull her forward - up, onto the bed; and he is pressing her back, one hand balancing against the mattress beside her head and the other catching the back of her knee, bringing her leg up as he fits himself between her thighs.

She fits her other leg loosely around his waist, drapes her arms around shoulders, idle fingers drifting his back. He hums into her skin, tip of his nose tracing goosebumps to her breastbone. He kisses the inside of her arm, her elbow, brings his free hand up to span fingers over her waist.

He always holds her with confidence. Knows where he wants her; how to move her body best for them both. He treats her like an instrument; listens, watches for her reactions - adjusts for the sweetest sound, to make her play the tune he wants.

“With promise,” she tells him, because she knows how to play him, too; how to find the tempo she needs. His mouth is at her breast, now, handsome head bowed to kiss his way across her chest. She reaches between them, hand spanning his abdomen. “A family Christmastide, with promise,” she runs her fingers along the length of him, half-hard; his shoulders stiffen, lock. He groans. “Promise of a Prince.”

He reacts quickly; he’s kissing her, hard, hands spanning the length of her body; claiming, curving to the lines of her. Her nails drag across his scalp; his teeth catch her lip. She touches him gently with her other hand; earns shivers and groans with teasing, barely-there contact when she finally gives him what he needs, stroking the hard, hot length of him. She struggles to keep her hips still, herself, focused on him, but worked up under the ministrations of his hands, and her own talk. Hiding it does not work - the faraway look on his face; eyes closed, lips half-parted, disappears with her squirming. Bright blue eyes, suddenly alert, snap to hers, and he’s smiling.

He sits up, back on his heels. “Insatiable,” he declares hotly, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her across the bed to him, angling her hips up so she’s propped against his thighs.

She laughs - half-covers her face with it, hand loose over her eyes. His hands drift her thighs; gripping - catch under her knees to tug again, like he’s just making a point. She moves her hand, just in time to see the shift of his before he’s pressing fingers against her - she inhales, sharp, shudders; the pressure moves in short, hard circles, and her knees dig into his ribcage, her hips move with it - almost involuntarily, Mary closes her eyes, head tilting to the side as she concentrates on the _feeling_.

The heat of him disappears; returns differently, he presses himself the length of her, both of them slick, and presses in without warning.

They groan together; Mary is _almost_ sore, but not so much that it hurts more than it’s _good_ , and Henry drops his head forward, hands back on Mary’s hips to pull her against him in tandem to the rock of his own body.

It’s a slow angle - different, tight in Mary’s thighs in a new way, she can feel herself shaking in his grip. He readjusts; leans farther forward over her, fitting an arm under her body to help hold her up. His free hand comes to rest against her abdomen, holding her hips flat - every thrust of him is spasmic, sharp; Mary can _feel_ him completely, the bright pleasure of friction hot in the center of her body.

She fists one hand in the bedding; reaches for his wrist with the other, shameless in the bite of her nails in his skin. She hears herself groan his name, distantly - hears his answering moan; a gruff thing, almost a _growl_ , and then he’s dropping his support around her waist, instead fitting both his hands behind either knee. He shifts, so her back is on the bed again, slowing the pace between them - Mary almost complains, but he readjusts, propping her calves against his shoulders as he leans forward, over her - and _rolls_ his body into hers, a grin of triumph on his face when Mary cries out.

He’s relentless - breaks her once, twice; drops closer to kiss her, teeth grazing already swollen lips, muttering commands in her ear, an insistence, _for me, Mary. Again, more_ \- until he shouts out himself, loud and low, buried in her shoulder.

Sometimes he falls asleep like that; heavy and warm on top of her. Not tonight; it’s too hot, even for his exhaustion - he rolls off of her, throwing his arms out across the bed. They’re lying upside down on it, the fire nearly burnt to its embers. He’s snoring within minutes.

Mary watches him. He is not quite peaceful, in sleep; there seems to be a permanent line in his brow, a slight pout to the cupid’s bow of his mouth. The greying of his temples is more visible with his hair messy from her hands; a mix of silver-and-white, just barely beginning to shoot through his beard, as well.

She thinks of Francis. She cannot help it; thinks of the soft, lion-like curls to the gold of his hair, his always-present stubble. This time, she wonders what he may have looked like as an older man; if his hair would have gone white completely, if he would have grown his beard. If he would have had these lines in his face, too; the proof of a life well-lived, of a long reign.

She wonders, not for the first time, if Francis approves of the decisions she’s made; of the husband she’s chosen, of the life she’s decided to build for herself.

She falls asleep next to her new husband, praying to the spectre of the man she will always love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we'll be in the london by the end of next chap, y'all, then the REAL drama starts. thank you for reading!!! all feedback & comments always welcome. much love, Xx.
> 
> follow https://www.instagram.com/ajar.ofgoodthings/ for ongoing updates & for all of my stories!

**Author's Note:**

> clarifications:
> 
> if you are at all a history fan, you have to like at least a little bit turn your brain off to enjoy this fic.
> 
> 1\. i have chosen to ignore characters and plotlines from both shows as it's convenient and based on personal preference. (this may or may not be my ultimate wish fulfillment piece.)
> 
> 2\. approximately, i've shoved together timelines in a way where England exists beginning definitively in 1527, the continent (france, germany, spain, etc) in 1561, and Scotland's political and religious situation somewhere between the two, trying to mix the realities of mary's reign with her father's, represented by her mother still being the french marie de guise, but with mary's father as james iv. this also eliminates mary's tudor connection, and the existence of henry darnley.
> 
> 3\. within the timeline mix, i've tried to keep things as accurate as possible for everyone's backgrounds; that is, anne's time in france, as a favourite of her mistress, though a very different mistress than marguerite de navarre; catherine de medici - which, frankly has been one of the best relationships to develop, ever. as well, james iv still died at flodden field, against an army headed by katherine of aragon; just at a different time, having married a different woman, leaving behind a very different heir.
> 
> 4\. i've adopted mary's ladies into various scottish royal families to match the original quote about them from reign, that three of them (lola, aylee and kenna) were titled and one (greer) incredibly rich. things have been bent to make them fit; clan campbell, earls of argyll at this time, are in this clan fleming, lola's family, where she is the only daughter of colin fleming and janet gordon - on the other hand, kenna has become kenna lindsay, daughter of alexander lindsay, 7th earl of crawford. im gonna just keep fucking w stuff, guys.
> 
> 5\. my george boleyn is somewhere between the tudors and the other boleyn girl. ie. not a rapist. (important for future)


End file.
